A Burning Reminder
by andyoureturntome
Summary: Sherlock is deeply, profoundly in love with John, and neither of them (consciously) realizes it. In the aftermath of their encounter with Magnussen, both are left emotionally reeling, and all of the feelings Sherlock has been repressing begin to haunt him in the form of dreams and phantom aches. Continuation of where Series 3, Episode 3, left off. Spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

This is un-beta'd at the moment, so please forgive any mistakes! Also, this is not Brit-picked. I'm American, so I'm going to use American spellings. I will try my best to inject British terms where appropriate, (lift instead of elevator, etc.) but there are bound to be things about which I am woefully ignorant, so please bear with me!

There might be possible triggers in this story. The beginning of this fic deals largely with extreme anxiety and preoccupation with mental instability. It explores past trauma and the stress coupled with that. There will be other possible triggers that occur in future chapters, and I will denote them when they arise.

This is written in first person and the present tense. One of these on its own is enough to be disconcerting, I know, and both qualities together can prove off-putting. You'll get the hang of it, though! Hopefully.

Obligatory notice: I own neither the show nor the characters in the show. I don't write this for profit, but I do write this at the expense of sleep and schoolwork.

* * *

**Sherlock has dreams and doesn't know why, John makes admissions he isn't prepared to face, and a dead man comes out to play.**

* * *

_"I've always been able to keep myself distant, divorce myself from feelings, but don't you see? My body is betraying me."_

* * *

1. Sooner or Later, It All Comes Apart

**…**

The cracks are expanding. They grow, like a tumor, fractal lines spiraling out in ominous fissures under my chair. I rest my chin on the steeple of my fingers and watch the creeping process. Their reach has extended since last night, and the grasp of their skeletal fingers is almost at John's chair. I watch it with detachment, as though I'm watching a particularly interesting experiment. And I'm fascinated to see the outcome. I'm the external factor—the catalyst. One touch from me, and the floor could fall away. I pull my knees into my chest, the action causing reverberations through the wood. Ill-portent settles over the room as the echoes of the creaks and groans fill it.

The cracks are expanding. Evidence of a flaw is what they are. An obvious tell. My mind flies out on its own, making connections instantaneously. Stories have cracks: little things that don't add up, cheap paint that peels away all on its own. _Secret_. The word comes, unbidden, to mind, and I shake it away impatiently. But it's too late. The memory is already hurtling toward me. When I close my eyes, I see the gun, aimed steadily at my heart. Bones have cracks. Fractures that radiate out from bullet wounds. Life seeps out from the breakage.

The cracks are expanding. Relationships have cracks. Pictures flash in front of my eyes. The church. The reception. John and Mary at their wedding, making vows, cementing their bond. _Liar_. The word rips through my brain like a gunshot, and the picture of the happy couple dissolves. Just like the trust. John and Mary are in the room with me now; John is across from me, and Mary is in the client chair. Tension crackles in the air. John looks broken. Mary is fighting to hold herself together. And I'm rupturing from the inside out.

The cracks are expanding. They are so busy glaring at each other that they don't notice the lines in the floor, shifting beneath their feet. They don't even notice me. _Leave_, I want to tell them. _Leave before it all falls apart_. But I don't. The slightest shift in weight, and we could all plummet. And I already feel like I'm falling. Black creeps in at the edges of my vision as I lose consciousness. Internal bleeding. Pain no one can see. _I'm dying, John. I'm dying_.

The cracks are expanding.

**…**

I come to awareness slowly, pieces of the dream adhering awkwardly to reality until I realize that they don't fit. The tightness in my chest releases. My brain is whirring at full speed again, and it's a relief. I hate those first few moments of disorientation that accompany the transition from sleep. It's one of the many reasons I stay awake for days on end.

The dreams are new. Another reason to avoid sleeping. In the past, my sleep was a black, dreamless state of abjection. A brief respite for the transport. My body was so exhausted that it would essentially shut down and go into a near coma-like state. Now, my brain runs rampant. Thoughts skitter out of my control as the filing cabinets of my mind are upended. Dreams. A kaleidoscope of thoughts without a purpose. I don't want to think about them, nor do I want to think about why they're coming.

Not wanting to waste any more time on the dreck of my subconscious, I force myself into a sitting position. My bare feet make contact with the floor. In a swirl of cotton and silk, I get out of bed and slip into my dressing gown. Without looking at a clock, I instinctively know that I'm up earlier than usual. Fleetingly, I wonder if Mrs. Hudson will have brought up my tea yet. Probably not. She is rarely around when I need her, and she always pops up when she's of no use.

Footsteps on the stairs catch my attention. They're too heavy to be Mrs. Hudson's. I know those footsteps. They've walked with me, always one step behind. I leave my room and open the door before he even has a chance to knock. He's got new wrinkles, I see. Worry lines around his eyes; stress lines in his forehead; frown lines by his mouth. All of his own making.

"Stopping by again? You've been doing that a lot lately."

He makes no response as I step aside to let him pass, but I am treated to the expression that has been etching those lines in his face.

"Trouble in paradise?"

I know I'm goading him, but I don't care. I didn't sleep well, and my patience has been shortened considerably. And irritation loves company. Or something like that. His glower deepens, and his shoulder collides with mine not accidentally.

"You know the answer to that," he replies testily as he throws himself into his chair.

"Hm."

He looks a bit red in the face, and he's not at work. His phone begins to vibrate, and he jabs the volume button a little more viciously than is necessary. Long after it falls silent, he glares at the screen as though it's caused him a personal offense. Another fight this morning, then.

"So will you be returning to Harry's couch this evening? Such a shame. You and Mary had just begun sharing a bed again."

"Oh, don't act like you deduced that from my gait or the way I'm sitting or some crap like that. I know the two of you get up to your secret texts and phone calls."

_Bitterness, so much bitterness, John_. Every time I see him these days, he's rankled. Not that I've seen him much in the past month. The limp's coming back. _Still miss the war, John?_ Absent tremor in his hand. _No. You fight it every day at home_.

"She's worried about you."

We both ignore the omission of myself in that statement. A non-committal grunt comes from the vicinity of the plaid chair. John puckers his lips and lands his chin in his hand. Two fingers slide up to his temple as he studies me. As we dwindle into silence, I turn my back on him and seize my microscope. Even in his prickly state, it's nice to have him back. He picks up a random book and begins to read. The scene practically hums with nostalgia. With me at my experiments and John in his chair, it's easy to believe that nothing has changed.

I shift slightly so that he's in my periphery. Minute motions at the edge of my vision draw my attention. Every few minutes, John's head will dip, bowed with the temptation to sleep. He and Mary may be sharing a bed again, but he clearly hasn't been resting easily. No sooner does he drift than his head snaps up and instantly, he'll look over at me, as though making sure I'm still there. Behind the anger, I see the smallest flicker of concern. So there is another reason for this visit.

"But you didn't come here to talk about _your_ problems, did you?"

John snuffles slightly as he rouses himself again and looks over at me. I wait the typical minutes it takes for him to follow my train of thought. Often, I carry on conversations in my head, and he is left mentally straggling. Finally, he catches up with me.

"In a way, I did. I came to talk about you."

The joke is robbed of its levity by the coldness in his tone. A brief moment of searing pain throbs from the place where the bullet was lodged.

"You alright?"

The tenor of his voice changes, lifting in fear. Looking down, I realize that my hand has unconsciously flown to my chest and clutched at the old wound there. The floor creaks as he turns to get a better look at my face. It sounds like the wood is splitting apart. Involuntarily, I flinch at the sound. Not good. Not good. Dreams are seeping into reality. Like my subconscious is bleeding. _Delete_.

John is on his feet now, jaw clenched in stubbornness. The hard set to his eyes informs me that my normal evasions won't work.

"What's the matter? Mrs. Hudson says you've been acting erratically lately, even for you. You go out at odd hours. Pick fights with her. She says she hears your shouts at night sometimes."

He advances toward me, eyes narrowed slightly.

"Unnecessary catalogue of unrelated phenomena to build a nonexistent case."

"Sherlock…"

Unexpectedly, there is no annoyance. He suddenly sounds cautious. As afraid to ask as he is of my answer. Seemingly of its own accord, his hand reaches across the space between us. We both stare at it as though surprised by its presence. It hovers tentatively before closing over air. Jerkily, he retracts it. My chest throbs.

"Sherlock, if you're using again, you can tell me. I know we haven't seen each other much since, um, Christmas," he stumbles awkwardly over the messy memory, "but you're still my best friend, and you can tell me. I won't be angry. I won't be disappointed. I will be there for you."

I wonder if he knows he just echoed my words from his wedding. Another painful pulse shoots through my ribs.

"Dull, John. Do you have to be wrong _all_ the time? It's so boring."

"So, if I open this," he extracts a slim package from the inner pocket of his jacket, "I won't find…anything…unsavory?"

"Well I can't speak definitively on that, but I assure you that it's not drugs."

"I found it on your doorstep," he offers needlessly.

Out of the side of my eye, I give the packaging a scan. Measure the wrapping job. Take in the handwriting. I know who it's from. I hold out my hand, and John obligingly settles it in my grasp. I weigh it perfunctorily before setting it aside.

"Phone."

I wrench my gaze back to the microscope's eyepiece and pretend like it's slipped my mind.

_John mustn't know. Mustn't see. Go, John, go. This isn't about you. Can't be about you._

With a snort, he begins to pivot away.

"You didn't tell me that you started getting fan mail. I guess it was only a matter of time. Of course, if they were any real fans of yours, they should know better than to send you a phone. You don't really have the best history with phones…" the word trails off as he figures it out.

I stare up at him from under my eyebrows. There'll be no placating him now. He lunges for it, but my hand's there first. Tremors run underneath the cardboard. In a matter of efficient seconds, I deftly extract the pink, vibrating phone. Blocked number.

Sputtered questions spill from his lips, and I turn away, letting him direct them at my back.

I say nothing as I accept the call.

"FINALLY! I was starting to think you didn't like my gift!"

So, he waited to call until I had the phone in my possession. Which he wouldn't have known unless he saw John give it to me. Shoving a hand in my pocket, I begin circling the room, looking for cameras.

"Always watching and waiting, aren't you?"

"Always," he stretches out the sound in a whispery hiss. "And I've been waiting far too long for you." His sonorous tones are a palpable presence in the room.

"So tell me where you are."

I'm surprised by how easily we're able to fall back into this pattern, this game. Of course, this always was how all of our conversations went. It's a dangerous dance, replete with careful choreography and tricky turns. One misstep and I could lose my partner.

"You know where I am Sherlock." He drags out my name, turning it over on his tongue as though savoring the taste of it.

"I'm pretty sure it's somewhere in London, if your adverts are anything to go by."

"Clever, clever. But maybe you should stop overthinking it. What does your _heart_ tell you?"

I give a little huff of bemused laughter. My chest hurts.

"I'll be waiting!" The click of the phone cuts off the trill of his voice, and I pull away the phone and bring it between my hands underneath my chin.

The static from the ended call resonates through the flat. A very peculiar twitch is working at the corner of John's mouth, and it only gets worse the longer we stare at each other.

"Right. Well, I'm going with you."

"Wrong."

Hurriedly, I leave him for my room and begin ripping through my clothes and throwing them on haphazardly. I see the shadows of his feet waiting on the other side of my bedroom door.

"There's a pattern here, Sherlock," he calls through the door. I can hear the strain in his voice. "Every time you meet him on your own, someone comes out almost dead. Or supposedly dead."

"And why mess with a winning formula?" Swinging the door open, I brush past him in search of my coat.

"Sorry, winning, how?"

"Well no one's ended up _actually_ dead so far."

"Sherlock—"

In a single, swooping movement, I slip into my coat.

"You're not coming."

"Then you're not going."

I roll my eyes as I loop my scarf around my neck. He steps in front of my path as I head for the door.

"The last time you saw him, you didn't come back for two years."

His eyes race over my face before dropping pointedly to the space below my shoulders. My hand is on my chest again. I allow it to drop away, and it flaps at my side in annoyance.

"I've apologized for that, and you've forgiven me. Of course, judging by your marriage, forgiveness with you seems to come and go. Now move. You can stay here if you want, but you're not coming with me. This isn't about you. It's always been about him and me."

The door shuts behind me with a resounding thud. I am hollow. There's an ache in my chest that has everything to do with John Watson. _Delete._

* * *

The roof of St. Bart's is grey and familiar. Familiar but strange. Last time, I knew I was walking to my death. This time, I'm not so sure. Déjà vu is a disconcerting thing, even when one understands the mechanics behind it. Just the brain, recognizing patterns and attempting to contextualize them and provide familiarity. True, I've been here before, but I plan on leaving here in a very different manner from last time.

I move leadenly, just the same. Muscle memory is proving more powerful that logical thought. Annoying. Even the pale, yellow sunshine, straining through thin, grey clouds is the same. I can taste the familiarity of the situation in the air. Music floats through the air, the inane ringtone blaring garishly through the cold and somber scene. And there he is. Rakish posture, beguiling smile, smug demeanor.

His cold eyes land on me, and the song cuts off.

"Sorry." The singsong word is accompanied with a careless shrug as he stands to meet me. "I'm a sucker for the classics!"

"No problem." I whip out the pink phone. "You seem to be quite fond of recycling old tropes. Coming back from the dead can expend a great deal of energy. Maybe you're all out of tricks?"

"Oh you." He hops onto the ledge of the building. "Always keeping me on my…toes." Theatrically, he totters back and forth, arms flailing dramatically. His mouth drops open into an exaggerated "O." A stage face of mock doom. With an easy grace, he whirls around and jumps back down to face me, affected and overdone frown dragging at his lips. "I thought it would be a nice touch to add a little nostalgia to our reunion."

"And what better place to begin a story than where the previous one ended?"

"See?" Palms up, he gestures widely. "You _get_ me. This is why our story's so GOOD! We were made for each other, Sherlock. Our epic battle continues."

"And the villain makes his grand return."

"Fairy tales are sooo passé. I'm much more in the mood for a tragedy." Sinisterly, he rubs his hands together. "Oh, picture it! The doomed lovers, the broken hearts. My head's practically spinning with the possibilities. And you," he turns to me, head cocked, "you, Sherlock," his hands grasp at the air in front of me, "will be my leading lady."

"And if I refuse the part?"

"I'm offering you the role of a lifetime! Something you can _really_ sink your teeth into." He gnashes his teeth as if to illustrate his point. "Enough with this ridiculousness. Your life has taken on a practically comedic hue! We both know such _levity_ doesn't become you. Honestly, it was absolutely gruesome to watch you become so, so, _boring_. There were times that I almost changed the channel. "

With some dissatisfied tutting, he shakes his head in disappointment, hands clasped behind his back. "BUT! But, you kept it interesting." Cruel laughter tumbles in the wind. "It did become exciting towards the end, when it looked like you were going to die."

He takes a heaving, dramatic pause. The next part, he speaks with relish.

"And Mary pulled the trigger. I've gotta admit, even I didn't see that coming."

"Yes you did."

"Okay, you got me. I did. But I was _riveted_ all the same. Sherlock Holmes, blinded by love. And we both know I'm not talking about her."

My chest is throbbing, throbbing, throbbing.

"When you dismiss the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth!"

It's a ridiculous parody of me, the words dripping with acid.

"I wish I could have seen the look on your face when the bullet RIPPED through you. You must have felt so _foolish_ knowing it was because you embraced your most fatal flaw."

"What would that be?"

"Sentiment! A fault found on the losing side! And you almost lost BIG! All because it was impossible, _impossible_ to think that your dear Mary would kill you."

"And I was right."

"You disappoint me. You work in the world of details, Mr. Holmes. Surely you can see a technicality when it's staring you in the face. You had a better chance of coming out of that situation dead than alive, and she knew it. And she took the shot anyway."

A gun is produced from somewhere within the folds of his coat. He holds out the handle for me to take it, and I knowingly take the bait. Instead of removing his hands, he wraps them around mine, securing my grip in his.

"Holding a loaded gun is a _heady_ feeling." He raises it so that it's pressed to center of his forehead. Our gazes are locked on each other. His voice has reached a deadly whisper. He guides my finger to the trigger. "So intoxicating to know that with the slightest bit of pressure, you can cause an explosion."

I wrench my grip away, but he continues on as if there's been no interruption to his monologue, the gun still in place. "But it's only this moment that's fun. Hovering on the precipice; rocking back and forth: will I or won't I? The edge, THE EDGE is thrilling. But, the falling, well, the falling's not much fun at all. You would know—sorry about that."

My face remains impassive. He holds up a hand in mock surrender.

"Okay, okay! No, I'm not. But I'm glad you didn't meet your concrete doom. Look how much fun we can have now! Who would have thought we'd end up here? Just two crazy kids, hurtling towards termination, only to find that we haven't even reached the CLIMAX of our story yet!"

The gun trails down his face, and he brings it into a loving caress, cradled against his chest.

"Oh, but back to guns. They're amusing little props, fun to wave around, but once you fire them, well, they get boring all over again. MILLIONS of people die from a gunshot. It's hardly a creative way to go. But I didn't really expect much from Mrs. Watson. Ugh. Assassins. Horribly predictable, and every one of them the same. But you didn't see the signs. Which brings me to my original point. You're slipping. Domesticity doesn't do you well. You let her get far too close, and then you went and pledged your life to her. Stupid, STUPID! And then she goes and does the unthinkable, and you forgive her. No. You _exonerate her_."

He's pacing now, frustration seeming to seep out of his pores.

_"Y_ou couldn't _imagine_ that someone you loved could betray you like that. Clearly, you know nothing about tragedy. Oh, but don't worry; I'm here to give you an education."

"And what is this? The prologue?"

"Good! So you do have a somewhat rudimentary knowledge. But unfortunately, you're wrong, so you don't get full credit. This is only the title sequence. Don't feel too bad about it. You can't always be right. Though, demonstrably, you can be _wrong_ about everything."

The meandering conversation swirls through my mind, and I sift through it, file it away, try to make sense of it. He's always been like this: all scattershot words and mixed metaphors. The gun disappears back inside his coat, and his phone reappears. A jackal's smile rips across his face.

"And now, I do believe I'll play myself out."

The ridiculous ringtone is back, escorting his exit. Then, eerie silence. He's disappeared again, and there's no sign that he had ever even been here in the first place.

"Stay tuuu-uned!" The disembodied words float across the rooftop and drift lazily in the air currents.

* * *

I don't go home. Not right away. In fact, it isn't until late evening that I finally return to Baker Street. My footsteps are heavy as I climb the stairs. Halfway up, I read the signs that I'm not coming back to an empty flat.

I push open the door to find him sitting at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle clasped in his hand. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair is on end. His knuckles are white.

"Oh, good. So it wasn't two years this time. Just twelve hours." A distorted smile warps over his face. _Stop it John._ He tips his bottle toward me. "Cheers to that."

Blearily, he narrows his eyes at me and brings me into focus.

"Why'd-why do y'do that?"

"What?"

"That."

He nods at my chest. My hand pauses in its unthinking massaging. I drop it quickly.

"Shut up."

He grins and brings the bottle to his lips again. Before he can take another swig, I've snatched it away from him. Blinking stupidly, John opens and closes his hand as though trying to figure out why it's empty. During his confusion, I pour the contents of the bottle down the drain.

"Go to sleep, John. You'll be a misery tomorrow."

After sending a quick text to Mary, I leave him at the table and retreat to my room. With one last look at the crumpled figure, I shut the door between us. I'm not hiding exactly. I'm just—avoiding. I pace until my body brings itself to rest on my bed. Ripples of exhaustion course under my skin. Weeks of fitful sleep coupled with the events of the day begin to take their toll.

I lay in the dark, plunging the depths of my mind. Hours pass. It's late. I can tell. My door swings open quietly. A defeated silhouette stands illuminated in the doorframe. It crosses the threshold and comes to a petulant pile on the floor near the head of my bed. He seems to have sobered up a bit, but tinges of drunkenness still hang about him.

"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

"Why am I here?"

I sigh heavily. "Don't bring your existential crises to me John. I'm brutally honest. You won't like the answers."

"No." It sounds like it takes him a lot of concentration to formulate his words. "No. Why am I _here_?"

"On my floor?"

"Yes. And no. I don't know. I guess. Why am I here?"

"Because you are a stubborn fool who won't go home to his wife."

"Ma-ry." He separates the syllables out into two words.

"Ye-es," I mimic him, not unkindly.

"She lied to me." _And there's the bitterness again_.

"Mm. Well so did I."

"No. You don't understand." He's suddenly frantic. "I know who you are. So when you do things, terrible things, unspeakable things, things that hurt me, I can understand. Because I know who you are. But I have no idea who she is."

"She's your wife."

"She's a stranger, Sherlock."

The hall light filters over his face. He has the distinct look of a man sinking into the abyss.

"So why do you stay?"

"I don't know." I hate how weak he sounds. This man—lying curled up on my carpet—I don't know who this man is at all, but he is not John Watson.

"Well, you had best figure it out."

I close my eyes, just for a minute, and doze. When I open them again, I can hear a door opening and closing. John is asleep on my floor. A petite form is outlined in my doorway. She comes in in a cloud of soft perfume that for some reason turns my stomach. There's a hush to her breathing and a hum to her gentle words.

"John?"

He stirs somewhat on the floor. Kneeling, she brings him to a sitting position.

"Mary," he mumbles.

"Yes, John. Come on. It's time to go home."

He goes without a fight, but then, he's not entirely cognizant of his actions. And maybe that's the answer. Keep him numb enough, and he won't feel the need to hurt himself anymore. I don't acknowledge their departure. I'm out of words. All there is now is blackness.

**…**

John is a porcelain doll, shattered on the ground. Smashed to bits. There should be more of him. There are not enough shards here to account for everything that makes up this man. People are running to help. They're not being careful; they trample him beneath their feet, grinding him into dust. I'm lying next to his collection of pieces and powder, a crumpled heap, bleeding out. Blood pools around me and dribbles out in crimson rivulets. It funnels toward him through the cracks in the pavement. St. Bart's looms above us, several stories too tall, the augmented height rendering it concave as I stare up at it.

Faces crowd around us and blend into a multicolored mosaic of concern and panic. Only one figure is salient in the mass. Mary's there. She's reaping his pieces and gluing him back together. But he's not going together correctly; there are too many gaps and holes. _Look at him. He's not right_, I want to tell her. He's clay in her hands now, and she's shaping him into something new—like she's filling a mold. _No, not like that. You're doing it wrong_. But I can't speak. My head's dashed on the ground, my mouth isn't working. Sensing my agitation, Mary smiles at me. "Relax. I've done this before." Her words are a honeyed melody. Her certain fingers move nimbly, smoothing over all of his sharp edges. _Guardian_. The word is written in the careworn lines of her face.

I blink and then the two of them are standing over me. The fragmented slivers have been made into an approximation of John's form. It looks like him, but it's not him, not exactly. Hairline seams run along his face as he looks down at me. _I'm dying, John. I'm dying_. I know he's worried, but he won't let me see. He should know better than to try to hide things from me. He forces a smile, an ugly, broken thing that starts causing rifts between the pieces of his face. _Stop it John. You don't have to pretend for me._ His face is breaking apart.

The cracks are expanding.

**…**

* * *

**This is going to be a long, angsty exploration of the relationship primarily between John and Sherlock. Having said that, I do want to emphasize that I don't intend to demonize Mary in an attempt to justify the relationship that is (inevitably) going to develop between the two men. This is going to be a long, drawn-out process and a long, drawn-out fic.**

**If anyone read, I appreciate it so much! Feedback is always welcome! xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies. They weave us together and pull us through.**

* * *

_"Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother. Or make him worse than ever."_

* * *

2. The Darker the Secret, the Harder You Keep It

"Mrs. Hudson! MRS. HUDSON!"

Within minutes, she's in the room, nerves and hands aflutter.

"Oh, Sherlock, the shouting."

Ignoring her, I continue tracing my finger down the window frame.

"There are cracks in the wood, the bathroom door sticks, and there's a draft in here. This place is falling apart. You're my landlady—as you keep reminding me—isn't it your job to fix this?"

With a fond sigh, she purses her lips affectionately and runs her hands over her apron.

"Aren't you in a state this morning." Already, she's turning for the door. "I'll get you some tea."

"Argh!" I press my head against the wall and fervently wish that John was still here so I could have access to his gun. _No. Distinction. I don't wish John was here. I wish his gun were. There's a difference._ Pulsations of pain shoot through my chest cavity, and I press against it to make it stop. Through the aching, I distantly hear footsteps returning up the stairs. My phone is vibrating from somewhere across the room.

"Hand me that, John." Lazily, I throw out my hand. Awkward silence lingers before I glance back over my shoulder. Mrs. Hudson is looking at me over the tray she's holding, sympathy and concern drawing her mouth down and her eyebrows together. My arm falls back against my side, and I resist the urge to bring it back up to my chest.

"Well, for God's sake, stop gaping at me and put that thing down!"

With pity still occupying the majority of her faculties, she continues clutching the tray in the doorway. I heave a long-suffering sigh and push away from the window. Mrs. Hudson decides to start moving again as I stalk across the room and snatch up my phone. She's babbling in the background amidst the clattering of china, and I tune her out as I check my messages.

There are a few from John, checking up on me. A couple from Mary. I ignore these. The most recent one is from a blocked number.

**How's the family?**

As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson's ramblings in the background are cut short by the very heavy footfalls of somebody lumbering up the stairs accompanied by the tapping of an umbrella.

"Go away, Mycroft."

"Manners, Sherlock."

I flop into my chair and wave Mrs. Hudson out of the room. Mycroft lets her pass before settling in the chair across from me. Even though it's petulant, I drag the small side table between us to create a barrier. The tip of the umbrella lands on the floor in between his legs, and he rests his chin on the handle.

"I've had a rather interesting phone call this morning. John Watson had some news he thought I ought to know."

"I doubt any of it was _news _to you."

"Yes, well, while I was well aware of your little rooftop chat," he gives me a pinched smile over the top of his hands, "I'm not quite as sure about where you were for the eleven hours after that." My face is carefully blank. "Dr. Watson isn't sure, either. Told me I should check in on you. Said last night might have been a danger night."

I wonder what John would say if he knew that they're all danger nights now. All those nights he's spent at Harry's and Mike's. He doesn't know how many of them she's spent watching over me. He has no idea how many pits she's pulled me out of, how many raids she's done. _Mary's clever, John. She's found hiding spots you never knew existed._ But we won't tell him. Her entire life has been a papier-mâché of secrets and lies. What's another layer? I stare hard at Mycroft. _What have you managed to peel away, brother mine?_

"Nervous tick?" He nods at my chest, and I know without looking that my hand is maddeningly there again. "I thought we broke you of those bad habits years ago."

I snort and look away. My childhood was a series of lessons, and my brother was my merciless instructor. He spent months training me to restrain physical tells. I was eight. He was cruel and he was relentless: _"Why bother telling lies when your body's screaming the truth?"_

His voice falls to a whisper. "But not all habits can be broken, can they, Sherlock?" _No, Mycroft, they're not like hearts._ Lazily he flicks his eyes about the room and slumps back in his chair, looking bored. "You're not going to make me look, are you?"

"Even if you did, you wouldn't find anything."

"Really?"

"Really. So, I hate to disappoint, but if that's all you've come here for—"

"You're an addict, Sherlock. You're hooked on some dangerous things. And even more dangerous people."

"Moriarty sought _me_ out. You said yourself that he's obsessed with me."

He sets his umbrella to the side and pulls a file out of his coat. Turning it over and over again, he studies it critically. I won't give him the satisfaction of asking what it is.

"So what does Moriarty want?" I can't tell if he's asking me or if he's asking the file.

"What he always wants: chaos, destruction, tragedy. The general pattern of his behavior isn't hard to point out; it's the nuances that I'm missing. The secrets, the dramatics—it's easy to recognize his methods. But there's no discernable goal."

"I wouldn't say that."

He thumbs through the contents of the file before holding it out to me. The thick, manila folder bulges dangerously. Pages and pages of private information. _This is what you do, isn't it, Mycroft? Copy and collate the darkest secrets of the Western world. _He's watching me now, smarmy and smug. I can practically see him swelling with satisfaction as he gorges himself on my gnawing curiosity. Paper and ink coalesce into loose-leaf temptation. And he dangles it over me in his absurdly manicured clutches.

Gold glints from the band around the ring finger on his right hand. His tiny, gilded manacle. _You love that, don't you, Mycroft? Being tethered to your regrets. Dragging around your responsibilities like anchors._

With a flat, smacking sound, he brings the dossier down onto the table that rests between us. By the tips of his fingertips, he pushes it toward me. Even as I deign to lift a hand to take it, he doesn't let go. I feel the measurement in his gaze, gauging my desire for it.

"Take care, little brother. These documents are of a sensitive nature."

"What isn't with you? Besides, since when do you try to conceal criminal intentions?"

"Oh, I see." He folds his hands over his (expanding) stomach and smiles pleasantly at me. There's danger in that smirk. "You think we've got the blueprints of Moriarty's plan in here," he raps the report with his knuckle. "Really, what we've got is more of a snapshot. But you might not like what you see, just the same."

"Mycroft." My hand balls into a fist over the stack. "What are you playing at?" I bite off the end of each word, punctuating them with staccato bursts of indignant breath.

"See for yourself."

I snatch the papers toward me and scan the words, my glower darkening with every sentence I read. A few pages in, and I've seen enough. I hurl it away, but the desire to keep going gnaws away at me.

"What the hell is this?"

"You know what it is."

"A transcript of every meeting John's had with his therapist since Christmas." _I hadn't realized you'd gone back, John. Do your secrets haunt you, too?_

"Why do you have this?"

"I keep an eye on such things—as you know—but lately, it seems as though I'm not the only one doing so."

"Moriarty?"

"Indeed. We found recording devices that aren't ours in the therapist's office. Clearly, he wants to keep his finger on your pulse."

The pain in my chest gives a lurch. My hand twitches, but I keep it defiantly clenched by my side. I know he sees, though. For a moment, Mycroft lets the act drop, and I see the worry.

"As I said, little brother, you are hooked on some _very_ dangerous people."

The blood pounds in my ears, and my head throbs in time with my heartbeat. _Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies._ With a flick of his wrist, Mycroft checks his watch and then glances up at me.

"They'll be going there today," he remarks conversationally. "In fact, they're probably on their way now."

"They?"

"Mm. The Watsons. His therapist thought it would be helpful if they both came in to sort through their problems." He wrinkles his nose. "Relationships. Very messy, and never worth the effort. Especially when it comes to family."

"You would know, wouldn't you, Mycroft?" Vehemence erupts out of me as I seize his hand. "Coming up on the anniversary, aren't you?" The gold ring glints between us. "What's it been, twenty years?"

For the smallest second, naked fear skitters across his face before he's able to compose himself again. _You hate that, don't you? Purgation is what you crave. But secrets never keep. And not all skeletons stay buried. _Victoriously, I release his wrist and settle back into my chair. Snatching up his umbrella, Mycroft gets unsteadily to his feet.

As he reaches the door, he turns back to me, an ugly look skewing his features into something cruel and twisted. I've wounded him, and now, he's got a barb of his own.

"Take care, brother dear. An unrequited love and a one-sided friendship bode for a broken heart."

"Moriarty and I are not friends."

"Who said anything about Moriarty?"

My ribs contract and force all the air out of my lungs. Every thrum of my heart seems to chip away at my sternum. This time, I bring both hands to press against the tightness.

* * *

The door is locked. Annoying but anticipated. The thick wood ensures that no one would be able to hear anything being said on the other side. Unless one were pressed up against it. Which, incidentally, I am.

"I'm trying, Mary. Do you think I want it to be like this? It's just hard. I'll be out shopping, and I'll want to pick up your favorite food, but then, I think, '_is_ it her favorite food or is it part of the lie she told?' Or I'll want to bring you flowers, but I don't know what flowers you _actually_ like. Don't you see? You make easy things hard. And it used to be the other way 'round."

John sounds tired. And defeated. _Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies._ They wash over him and wear him down. I wait for Mary's response.

"You know me, John." She's begging now.

"No. I know a version of you."

It's helpful that there's no receptionist. It makes picking the lock much easier.

"You told me once that this was the only version that mattered. Is Mary Watson not good enough for _you_?"

The telltale click of metal tells me that I've succeeded.

"I thought it was, but maybe that was expecting too much. Maybe I overestimated what I was capable of. Got swept up with the romance of it all."

"He does that quite a bit, you know," I remark blithely as I swing open the door. "Exaggerates everything."

I'm treated to a scene of shock. John's face runs the comical gambit from astounded to enraged in a matter of seconds. Mary's lips are pressed together in macabre amusement, and their therapist—her name escapes me—looks nothing short of flabbergasted. Her muttered stammering of "H-how…? It was locked!" is drowned out by John's borderline-unhinged laughter.

"Perfect! Just what every psych evaluation needs: a touch of insanity."

Well, that's a bit rude. I frown at him.

"Always so inaccurate, John. This is couple's therapy. No one is testing you for psychological instability. Though, admittedly, I would probably advise against exposing certain dangerous predispositions of yours. Especially in this setting—"

"SHUT-UP!"

I never before appreciated just how much that vein in his forehead bulges when he's angry.

"Violent outbursts." I nod knowingly and point at the therapist's notebook, an indication for her to write it down.

Before John strangles me—which, presumably, is his desire, judging by the way his hands are twisting in midair—Mary interrupts.

"Sherlock, why are you wearing your pajamas?"

I look down and take in my bare feet and bathrobe.

"It must have slipped my mind. I was in quite the hurry to get here."

"And just why are you here?" John's tone has taken on a baffling and wonderful layering of patience and frustration, a cadence he only seems to assume around me.

"Thought I'd pop in and say hello." My attention wanes as I begin scanning the room.

"Lovely," John replies with heavy sarcasm. "This is typical Sherlock Holmes: just deciding to show up when he pleases, other people be damned."

"Oh, sort of like you?" Mary interjects. "Like how you _decided_ to forgive me? And then _decided _to change your mind? But I guess that's your _privilege_ though."

I raise my eyebrows and nod as I fiddle with the things on her desk, picking them up and inspecting them.

"That's different." John's under pressure. He's going to say something he'll regret. "Sherlock's inconvenient at times," I wince at that, but he doesn't notice, "but you…you're," it's coming, I can tell, "you're bloody unbearable!" There it is. A bit not good.

"Unbearable?!"

"Yes, Mary. Unbearable. I can't bear it. I can't _bear _it."

"Can't bear what?" The therapist looks perturbed. John, chest heaving, doesn't answer her, but the rest of us already know what he means. _Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies._

"You forgave Sherlock, and he faked his death!"

_Traitor_. I pause in the middle of running my fingers over the frames of the paintings hanging around the office and shoot her a mutinous glare. She shrugs in apology, but I can see the distress underneath. John is seething now.

"Well, Mary, _you_ faked an entire life."

With a sigh, I roll my eyes and glance back at the therapist. She has been woefully neglected in this conversation, I feel.

"So dramatic. Likes to hold on to things. I can't imagine how miserable it is to be his therapist." She opens her mouth to respond, but I turn away from her and begin inspecting the underside of her lampshade. "He does have his uses, however. Can prove quite…illuminating at times."

"For the love of…Shut up and get the HELL out of here!" He's on his feet now, and I dance slightly out of his reach.

"Likes to pick fights, too. In fact, I believe he started a particularly nasty one with Mrs. Watson just yesterday morning."

"It was about sleeping arrangements," Mary offers helpfully. John turns back to her, a defensive hunch to his shoulders.

"It's sort of difficult to sleep when you have nightmares, only to wake up and realize that the cause of them is lying right next to you."

I stop in the middle of casing the room and stare at him. He spares me a fleeting look before doing a double take.

"And now he does that." He's pointing at me, his finger directed right where the bullet hole was. Right where my hand is currently pressed. "Because you shot him!" The vein is bulging still, and Mary is looking at me with horror. "Because that's what you do, or did, or whatever: you kill people!"

A gasp from the therapist tells me that John clearly hasn't filled her in on that aspect of his life—what _does_ he tell that woman, then? I shake my head and let my arms dangle by my sides.

"You've killed people, too, John. In fact, we all have now!" I perhaps sound a little too enthused, considering how appalled the therapist looks at that declaration. Awkwardly, I clear my throat.

"I killed people because it was my job. What you two did was murder."

"Murder for a very good reason."

"Do enlighten me."

"Love."

"She shot you out of love?"

"Well, no. She was going to shoot Magnussen out of love. I just got in the way."

"I don't understand."

"The baby! The baby! Clearly, once she found out she was pregnant, she panicked. Had to protect her family, keep her secrets buried. Prevent her past from destroying her future."

"And you finished the job for her, did you?"

"It was what I vowed to do. Whatever it took."

John blinks hard, and Mary wipes a tear from her eye.

"Don't hold on to the bitterness, John. You'll regret it. We're not going to live forever, and let's be honest; with our lifestyle, we're probably not going to live for very long. And when the end comes, you won't get much warning. If you _do_ get to say goodbye, it won't be the romantic scene you'd think. You'll be lucky to get a handshake in. So, don't leave her in doubt of your love now."

As they process that, I bend over and pull a microphone from underneath the chair John vacated earlier. "And now, John, I do believe your hour's up."

Numbly, John and Mary file out of the room, and I close the door behind us, leaving the therapist with eyes and mouth agape. We wait for the lift to arrive, and I can feel John's hard stare. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"You'll be lucky to get a handshake in," he parrots my words back to me. "So that moment by the plane? Did you know you that was goodbye…for good?"

"You knew it too, John." He just looks at me, chest heaving as though he's still waiting for an explanation. With a sigh, I look him hard in the eyes. "Mycroft said it was a six-month mission. A terminal mission."

"Unbelievable!" He (unnecessarily) jabs the call button again, and Mary gives my arm a quick pat.

"I just always thought you'd come back," he mutters, and we all pretend that he's talking to the wall.

* * *

We walk out of the building a little stiffly, not quite able to look at one another. There is a very conspicuous gap between John's hand and Mary's. The back of his neck is stiff, and there is a rigid set to his shoulders. Discomfort ripples among the three of us as we stand shoulder to shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk looking for a cab. John is practically vibrating with the aftershocks of our meeting. I'm feeling a little shell-shocked myself.

Mary, on John's other side, is as unfathomable as ever. Out of the corner of my eye, I cautiously glance over at John, hard-eyed, jaw-clenched, lips-pursed, John. I clear my throat and open my mouth to speak, but he shakes his head infinitesimally, and I close my mouth again.

A cab is trundling toward us, and I step forward to flag it down. Suddenly, John's hand shoots out and grabs my shoulder. I freeze at his touch, and I know that the expression I assume is what John calls my "does-not-compute face." Falteringly, I raise a hand as though to fold it over the grip on my shoulder. Halfway through the upwards journey, I halt in my motion and land my hand on my chest instead. I barely even notice that I'm doing it.

John rests his head against his extended arm, but he doesn't let go. The scene feels strangely intimate in the middle of this damp, dreary road. It suddenly dawns on me that we all seem to be holding our breath. People bustle around us, seemingly unaware of the significance of what's happening here.

Shaking, John squeezes my shoulder and then drops his hand, bringing it to intertwine with Mary's. Relief is palpable among us as I turn to face them. Again, I open my mouth. I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to say, but I feel the need to say _something_. I've been spending too much time with these people. Their tendency to fill the air with _words, words, words_ is rubbing off on me.

Before I can articulate anything, a sleek, black car pulls up beside us.

"Of course," I mutter.

The door opens, and we slide inside.

"Twice in one day, Mycroft?"

"I must have missed you."

I flick his microphone towards him.

"You might need to do some damage control. I believe John's therapist might want to have us all committed."

"Someone's already been dispatched," Mycroft replies, sounding bored. He pulls out his phone and pays us no more attention. That gold band glints in the pale sunlight streaming through the window. The tires churn over the pavement. _Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies, _they seem to say.

After we've been dropped at Baker Street, I race up the stairs to check the blog. John and Mary follow after me, and I see Mary's eyes already running across the living room. No doubt figuring out how to discreetly check my various hiding spots.

"Brilliant!" I exclaim as I open a new message.

"Got a case?"

"Yes, John, it would seem that I finally do. Now, get out. I have to pack."

"Where are you going?"

"America."

* * *

**I plan on writing primarily from Sherlock or John's point-of-view with other characters' viewpoints occasionally interspersed. We'll see how it goes...**

**Thank you so much for reading, and all of the feedback has been lovely! xxx**


	3. Chapter 3

**John feels cut out of Sherlock's life only to have him come flooding back in.**

* * *

_"He's not like that. He doesn't feel things that way. I don't think."_

* * *

3. It Kills Me to Know What You Can't Hide

"America?"

I plant my hands on my hips and blow the air out of my cheeks. He's rushing around with the same dynamism that consumes him when he's on a case. But every now and then, just for the smallest second, he'll hesitate. It's almost like he's forgotten what he's doing, except that he doesn't look disoriented. He doesn't even seem to notice it. The strange, stuttering movements have just been integrated into his normal pattern of movement. Except that it's not normal. It's very, very strange. Especially because he usually moves with such purpose.

"Yes, John. That's what I said, isn't it?"

Well, at least that's still the same. Rolling my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose and shoot Mary an exasperated look before remembering that we're supposed to be fighting right now. But she gives me a small, concerned smile, and for a moment, I allow myself to appreciate the solidarity between us. Which Sherlock promptly interrupts by suddenly deciding to be chivalrous. He breaks in between us to help Mary out of her coat.

Me, he ignores. He does that more often than not now.

"And what are you doing over there?"

"Missing persons case. Quite tricky. Been working on it for almost a month now. Finally got a lead."

I shut the door behind me and run my hand over my face. I feel conspicuous just standing in the middle of the room, but navigating around the whirlwind that is Sherlock feels like a minefield that I want to avoid. Mary brushes past me unconcernedly and steers herself easily around him and into his chair.

She has started to replace me as the calm in his storm, and I'm just out of touch. But then, I guess she's always been more his speed.

Blanching slightly, Mary grabs her stomach and shifts herself into a more comfortable position.

"Are you alright?"

In between his slapdash packing, he's been watching her from the side of his eye. He's at her side now, and he drops a hand on her shoulder. The gesture has the same faltering quality as his other actions, but he doesn't immediately move away. Mary sits with one hand still across her stomach. The other, she brings up to clasp the hand that Sherlock has resting on her shoulder.

He stands faithfully beside her, an unwavering pillar of devotion. Were he an ordinary man, his capacity to forgive would be absolutely astounding. But this is Sherlock. And he sees no need to forgive because he feels no need to blame. If it were any other man, it would be an extraordinary display of human compassion and empathy. But it's not. It's cold, hard logic.

"Mary?" he prompts. She has been sitting quietly the whole time, seemingly without having heard him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watches her and waits for her answer.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine." She shoots him a small smile that he stiffly returns.

I can't understand it, but something about the image of the two of them feels unnatural. And then it hits me. He's not fully looking at her. He's trying to be comforting, but it doesn't come across that way at all. He's clasping her shoulder but staring at the ground. Still, I can't help but sense a certain level of intimacy, like there's a communion between them in that small touch. I feel like an intruder on this little scene between my best friend and my wife, and I hate it. Everyone is in the wrong place.

With a shake of my head, I turn away and begin cobbling together some tea.

Silence descends as Sherlock moves away from her, still watching her sideways. He does that all the time, I realize, as I review all of their past interactions. He never looks her dead on, straight in the face. I wonder if Mary sees this. Probably. She's trained to notice that sort of thing. But then, so is Sherlock.

His brain is a marvelous thing, and he's largely trained it to control his bodily impulses, but there are some things that even he can't overcome. Involuntary actions—breathing, blinking—have plagued him since birth. Lately, however, these slips of control are becoming more pronounced. I think of his hand on his chest, the way he won't look at Mary, the abortive motions he keeps making. Something's off with him.

Though he's swaggering about now, I find that I'm not as self-assured simply because he doesn't seem to be. He lacks the surety of movement that he had before, and it worries me. There's a halted, mechanical quality to him. It's so subtle, that I'm positive that only I am aware of it. Even out of the three people in this room.

"I just don't know why he's being like this," Mary sighs as though there was only a moment's pause since her last words instead of several minutes.

"Mm," he gives her another cautious glance. "Maybe he's going through the grieving process. First, he was in denial. Now, he's angry."

I don't bother reminding them that I'm still here. They know. They always do this. I also don't bother to point out how inept his analogy is. He doesn't understand human emotions, so he tries to categorize them in the general concepts he's been able to memorize. Mary, however, is nodding as though it makes perfect sense. She turns to me with light dancing in her eyes. Even though what she did turns me cold, warmth still emanates from her, draws me in.

"Alright, John, so let's move right on the bargaining. You go with Sherlock to America, and when you come back, you give us an actual chance."

My heart lifts in spite of everything. Of course she would realize that I would want to go with him. I've been dying to work a case with him, but every time I turn up at his flat, he's out or he's too busy to take notice of me. It's like he's learned to function without me. He'd incorporated me into his life once, and just as easily, he had phased me out.

As though confirming this, he gives me a fleeting look. His hand is on his chest again. His grip is so tight that I can see his tendons bulging. I wonder if he leaves bruises.

"He can't go. You're pregnant." His tone is flat, almost accusatory.

"Well that's the nice thing about babies, Sherlock," she smiles at him amusedly, and with the slightest jerk of his chin, he risks a glance in her direction. "They keep for a while."

She chuckles and pats her stomach. When they make eye contact, he flinches away, the motion completely at odds with her kind words. Hurt blossoms across her face. But again, he seems unaware of doing anything out of the ordinary. He just continues on with their conversation in perfectly innocuous tones.

"Well, we shouldn't be gone for more than a week, tops, but are you sure you can spare him? I really don't have need of him the way that you do."

"Always trying to unload me," I mutter. Neither of them seems to hear me, but the hand on his chest does twitch for a moment before he realizes it's there and drops it.

"_Don't have need of him_?" Mary repeats with a rueful laugh. "You two are so entrenched that you spy on one another's lives when you can't be directly involved in them. I mean, the amount of questions I've had to answer each of you about the other!" Shaking her head, she looks at us exasperatedly. "Would you two just go already and give me a break?"

* * *

I thought that living with Sherlock was hellish. That was before I travelled with him.

After we agreed that I would join him on his little venture across the pond, Mary and I left so I could pack. At some point on the cab right home, our hands had found each other, and I didn't feel particularly bothered to let go. And I thought, maybe, maybe, we could fix this. Tranquility had descended over me, and things felt like they were falling into place.

Then, Sherlock showed up without so much as a 'hello' and ushered Mary and me into our car. And despite his earlier reservations about the welfare of Mary or our unborn child, he didn't seem to find a cause for concern as he slid into the driver's seat. What we were treated to after that was two hours of terrifying, twisting, turning driving on a meandering route through the suburbs and back roads until we finally, miraculously ended up at the airport.

Things had only gotten stranger from there. Instead of the roughly seven-hour flight that I'd anticipated, our journey was a chaotic jump from one country in Europe to another. At each stop, he would produce sketchier and sketchier forms of identification, warning me to keep my real passport hidden. "Wiggins has his uses and his connections," he'd cryptically murmured the first time this happened. And he would only pay for our tickets with cash. I was at once extremely alarmed and even more suspicious.

Not wanting to draw attention to us or risk being overheard, I'd kept my mouth shut. But I had started to wonder if the week he'd allotted for this trip was dedicated exclusively to flying aimlessly from place to place. When we were finally on a New-York bound flight from somewhere in Lithuania, I looked over at him, completely unamused.

"I would recommend getting a travel agent next time, Sherlock. "

With a smirk, he'd glanced over at me.

"I got quite good at travelling abroad when I was away, you know." He'd paused for a moment, and we both sat in quiet contemplation of that. We never talked about the fall. It had suddenly occurred to me that I was walking on eggshells in every aspect of my life. "I got especially good at travelling undetected," he'd continued, perhaps a beat too late.

"And are we keeping our little vacation a secret from anyone in particular or…?"

"Primarily, we are from Moriarty. But Mycroft as well. I doubt he'll approve once he figures it out."

"They both have eyes on you then?"

"Mm. Who do you think put that microphone in your therapist's office?"

"For once, I hope it was Mycroft."

"That one was his, but Moriarty's was in there before that. Mycroft had his people remove it once they found out about it."

"How thoughtful of him." Mycroft had always encroached on our lives, but I was still irked at this level of intrusion. "Wait, so why does this have to be a secret? What is this case, exactly?"

"You'll see," he'd replied enigmatically. Despite my constant prodding, he had refused to answer me, and I had fallen asleep in annoyance.

Now, we are standing the lobby of a very posh, very expensive hotel. I am tired, disheveled, jetlagged, and extremely annoyed. Sherlock is just as unforthcoming now as he was on the plane, and I find that I don't have much patience left for him. As we head to our room, (of course Sherlock only got one room) I pointedly give him a wide berth. What I really want is some time to myself.

The room is a very nice suite with two beds, (thank God) and it's very clear that we're here on Mycroft's dime. I wonder how he got that kind of cash out from under his brother's nose. As I collapse onto the downy comfort of the bed, I find that I don't really care.

"Don't sleep, John. It's only noon here; you'll mess up your sleeping pattern."

"Sod off." It comes out muffled as I bury my head under the pillow.

"Get up. We have to go get you a suit, anyway."

"What?" I glare at him from under the blissful comfort.

"There's no time for bespoke, obviously, but we can get an off-the-rack one tailored nicely by tonight," he muses to himself, completely ignoring me.

"Sherlock," I say loudly, "what exactly do I need a suit for?"

"There's a rather large benefit going on here tonight. She's going to be there, and we need to look the part."

"Who's going to be there?"

He clasps his hands together and gives me a somewhat maniacal grin. "Our missing person."

* * *

This whole thing is turning out to be not at all what I signed up for. Sherlock has regained some of his former confidence, but it feels forced, like he's putting on a mask. He holds me distantly now, and his remarks had become more and more cutting the closer to evening we got. The event started at eight, he had us dressed by seven, but wouldn't let us go down until half-past nine.

With the careful use of Mycroft's credentials, he sneaks us into the event, and we are now in the middle of a massive ballroom, practically suffocating with people. I look up and see that there's a second story, and it forms a sort of balcony that runs the perimeter of the room. Even more people are up there, milling around and looking down at us.

Sherlock is on full alert now, predatorily scanning the room, and I can feel the contact high of his adrenaline take its effect on me. Though I'd never admit this to him, I missed this. So much.

After an hour of fruitless searching, doubt starts to set in.

"Sherlock, maybe she's not here."

"Of course she is. She just arrived."

And there, at the top of the stairs, I see her. The same high cheekbones, the same cruel beauty. She descends the staircase unassisted. She's always been like that: completely self-possessed and in control. I know she's beautiful, but it's not the kind of approachable beauty that attracts men. It's the uninviting and overawing kind of beauty that makes it very clear that if you try for her, you won't survive her.

Of course she would return like this. She and Sherlock must be soul mates. Infatuated with dramatics, they are. She looks like a movie star out of the nineteen twenties: glamorous and untouchable and not quite real. It all seems faintly ridiculous, but she sells it so well. Especially in a tight, black dress that leaves very little to the imagination.

A slow-building anger is forming behind the roar of disbelief I'm feeling, but I am currently too occupied with shock to deal with anything else. I'm not the only one staring, nor am I the only one with bulging eyes. But I do suspect that I'm the only one with my particular reason for awe.

Accusations begin to float to the forefront of my mind. Because the last time I checked, Irene Adler was dead. Opening my mouth, I turn to demand some answers from Sherlock, but in his typical fashion, he's disappeared. She's halfway down the stairs now, and I can feel her gaze on me. I lock eyes with her, and her crimson lips turn up into a half-smile before she disappears into the rush of the crowd.

Great, well, she's probably off flirting with Sherlock, or _at_ Sherlock, or whatever the hell it is that they do together. The thought makes me irrationally angry, and I decide that it's time for a drink. Or two.

She finds me at the bar a while later with my defenses down and my wits a little more dulled than I would like. Several pairs of eyes are watching us, and I can practically feel the burn of their curiosity. And I just know that they're wondering why someone who looks the way she does is talking to someone who looks the way that I do. They wouldn't question it if it were Sherlock standing here. They both have a kind of alien, but complementary beauty. _Did I just call Sherlock beautiful_?Shaking my head, I wonder where that thought came from. Probably the alcohol.

I swill my drink and glare at her over the rim of my glass.

"How's Sherlock?" The acid burn in my stomach turns my words caustic as I fling them at her.

She shrugs and waves down the bartender. "Well, he's not making an awful lot of sense right now, I'm afraid."

Fear is a hollow pit in my stomach, and my heart thrums loudly against my sternum.

"What did you do to him?"

I can't explain it, but being away from him right now is absolutely terrifying. The anxiety is always there, but usually, I'm able to repress it. The distance between us distresses me. Not just now, but always. Even after all this time, when he's not beside me, I worry that he's gone for good. Or that he will be very soon.

"Relax. He'll be fine in the morning." I've heard that before. The blood pounds in my head. "But I did give him a slightly more concentrated dose than the first one."

Pushing away from the bar, I look around frantically for him. Her hand grabs the crook of my elbow, and I fight to suppress violent urges.

"When he comes to, he'll want to talk to me. Didn't get very far with me tonight. Of course, that's his own fault. Business comes first, and his arrival interfered with a very important transaction of mine."

"So you drugged him?!"

Again, she shrugs.

"It's kind of our thing."

Luckily for us both, I see Sherlock in the corner of the room looking pale and panicked. Even from this distance, I can tell that he's losing control of his faculties. Roughly, I shake her off and shove through people. Desperately, I try to reach him.

When he spots me, he stumbles toward me, and I catch him easily.

"John," he moans. It's never _help_. It's always _John_.

He's trying to hold it together, but I know the babbling is coming. I drag him from the ballroom and into the hallway just outside the grand doors. His fingers are practically adhered to the front of my jacket, and I realize that I'm his anchor to reality. Naked fear is in his eyes, and it sends a spasm of panic through me.

He's going limp in my arms, and I know that I won't be able to get him up to the room like this. Instead, I pull him toward a nearby bench and take on the majority of his weight as I sit us down. He curls into me, and I naturally curve my arms around him. I can feel the sweat from his forehead against my shoulder as he leans against me.

"My body hurts, John. The Woman put a needle in me. She put a hole in me. I've got lots of holes in me. I put needles in me. I put holes in me. I've got lots of holes in me. But you don't know that. Mary said she wouldn't tell. She shot me. She put a hole in me. I've got lots of holes in me. I've got bone fragments in my veins. I can feel them coursing through me. Puncturing flesh. Making holes. Can you see them, John? Connect the dots. I'm leaking. No. I'm collapsing. Connect the dots. The lines draw the shapes of my cracks. Can you feel me crumbling?"

He's muttering against the fabric of my shirt. It's his inner monologue, his stream of consciousness. I try to shush him, but he's gone beyond recognition. I don't want to hear what he's saying because it scares me. And it hurts me. He pulls away and looks me full in the face. His fingers are prying at my jacket like he's trying to tether himself to me. His eyes are huge, and his pupils are blown wide with fear.

"I'm scared, John. Do you remember the last time I was scared? I do. This time it's worse. It's seeping out of me. Can you taste the fear? I can. It tastes like blood. But I don't have any blood left. He burned it all up. I'm bone dry. I'm ashes and dust. It comes off of me in vapors. I need something else to fill me up. Love. No. You can burn love. Cinders, ashes and dust. Dust to dust. She's dust. Because of Mycroft. He didn't kill her, but he did. He burned his heart out."

Tears are pouring down his cheeks. This is nothing like the first time she drugged him. The first time, he just inanely rambled and made vague insults and deductions. This time, it's freeform, terrifying admission. Half of it's unintelligible, but I can make sense of some of it. Or, at least, I can follow the general pattern of what he's saying. He's breaking down in my arms, and I don't know how to put him back together.

"Madness. It will consume me. Mercury madness is seeping in. It's caustic, John. I don't want it. Don't let the madness in here, John. My body hurts. Make it stop."

He seizes my hand and drags it up to his chest.

"I hurt. Can you feel it? _It hurts._ Make it stop. Don't let the madness in." His speech is breaking down, and I know that the worst of it is passing. "Don't let it in, John."

"I won't," I croak.

"Okay." I feel him relax and sag against me. "I hurt."

"I know."

"John." His eyes are desperate as they search mine. "Am I wrong?"

"Of course not." I have no idea what he's talking about, but my answer still feels like the truth. He's Sherlock. How could he ever be wrong?

"Good," he whispers. His limbs are still heavy, but his mind has stilled enough to allow him to focus on working with me somewhat as I guide him through the halls and into a lift. We ride the floors in silence. The only noise that breaks through the stillness is his ragged breathing. His head finds its way onto my shoulder.

Once we're back in the room, I settle him on the bed, pulling off his shoes and dropping them on the floor. His breathing is raspy and unsettled sounding, but it's starting to slow and even out. Just when I think he's asleep, his eyes drift open. His hands catch the front of my jacket again, and he pulls me back toward him. Automatically, my arms come to circle him.

"John. I'm sorry I left you. I always leave you behind. Except, I don't. I always take you with me. Right here." Clumsily, he taps his temple. "You're the voice in my head. I carry you with me. You fill me up. Yes. That's good. You fill me up, John."

I cradle him in my arms and smooth the hair away from his forehead. This unnerves me. I realize that I felt better when he was frantic. I could temper that. I was in control. But he's calm as he strips his mind bare before me. He doesn't seem to know he's talking, but he's smiling indolently at me as these revelations slip carelessly out through his lips. Though he's a mess of limbs in my arms, his bodily mass seems to be diminished. Everything is consumed by his brilliant mind.

Even me.

Especially me.

Boundaries between us are gone. _When did that happen?_ Mary was right. We are too entrenched in one another. _Stop cutting me out, Sherlock. It hurts._ Gently, I ease him out of his jacket and dress shirt, leaving him in a thin, cotton undershirt. I lay him down. He gives a tiny smile and rolls away from me. It pulls at something just below my ribs to see him looking so exposed and fragile. With a pang, I step away. Every part of my body that was in contact with him stings with his absence. He breathes the smallest of sighs, and I force myself to go to the other bed. A gulf is forming between us already. By morning, it will be a chasm again.

* * *

**Thanks if anyone read! xxx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Everything hurts, and nothing is okay.**

* * *

_"You look sad...when you think he can't see you."_

* * *

4. All the Monsters that Hide in My Head and Keep Me 'til Dawn

**…**

I'm pinned to a bed. White sheets and hospital corners. Needles in my arms. Clicks and whirs of medical machines. The morphine drips and drips and drips. I can't feel anything. Gold glasses wink and glint above me. Magnussen. He's smiling pleasantly at me through his dead eyes. Calmly, methodically, he begins peeling back my skin, flaying it open. Red blood on the white sheets. He's looking inside me, seeing how I work. Finding my pressure points.

He beckons someone over, and Mary appears at my side. Her face is stoic as she studies me. They whisper together and she nods knowingly, pointing things out to him. I'm nothing more than a science experiment to them. _Do you see it, Mary—whatever it is you're looking for?_ A small, sad smile pulls at her lips. I seize up as cold metal makes contact with my body. Mycroft hovers above me now, face grim. Steadily, deliberately, with tweezers in hand, he begins pulling organs out of me. One by one, they leave me: kidneys, stomach, liver, lungs. _Take them all, Mycroft. I don't need them. I can live without them_.

"Where's the heart?" Mary and Magnussen peer into me, puzzled. For the first time, they look ruffled, worried. The morphine drips and drips and drips. "Close him up. He's nothing without his heart." I close my eyes, and all their faces melt away. I open them again, and I'm back at Baker Street. John is standing across from me. I can almost taste his horror. Walking forward, I reach for him. _It's okay. It's okay, John. It's okay._

He flinches away from my touch, and my gaze falls on my hand. My skin is a patchwork of mismatched scraps. None of this is right. I'm not myself. Desperately, I claw at it, trying to get the foreign scraps off of me. I pull the skin off my arms like sleeves, hurtling the false flesh away from me. John is running toward me now, shouting unintelligible things. I tear at my back, trying to get it all off of me. I'm tearing myself apart. John's arms are around me now, pinning me down, holding me back. "Stop this. Stop it now!" _I can't, John, I can't._

**…**

_"Stop. Sherlock, stop it now!"_ I wake up paralyzed. I can't move my limbs. I can't breathe. Panic wells up, chokes off logic; quells rational thought. Disjointed observations assault me. Flashing red numbers on the alarm clock. The hum of the heater. A thin strip of light under the door. The drugs are still in my system, confusing me, holding my mind hostage. _Context. Context_. The bed's too small and the sheets are too stiff. The air is stagnant and stale. I'm not at home. I'm not in London. Where am I? I'm here. With John. _John. Where are you, John? _

Wretched, gasping noises tear into the tiny, quiet space. Dimly, I realize that they're coming from me. I'm still thrashing around, my body has taken on a will of its own. _"Stop this. Stop it now."_ Are the words in my head? No. They're coming from John. Wonderful, familiar John. I jerk around and look for him in the dark.

"It's alright. I've got you. I've got you." There's warmth at my back and surrounding me. It's John. I'm encased in his arms. He's kneeling on my bed and holding me together. There's a shake that's not coming from me. _It's okay. It's okay, John. It's okay._

As the tension seeps out of my body, his arms melt away. I feel his loss. Like a bandage being ripped off. My skin stings. We're both breathing heavily as he runs his hands over his face, wiping off the sweat. _Is it only sweat? Too dark to tell._ Glancing over, he makes sure I'm awake and alright. He's still sitting on my bed.

I sigh and begin cataloging everything I can make sense of. Obviously, John navigated me up to our room from the ballroom. That would have happened after The Woman drugged me, which is last thing I clearly remember. After that, all I can recollect are swirling colors and opaque thoughts. And pain, so much pain. And John. Wincing slightly, I begin to register the soreness in my arms where he was holding me. Somewhat guiltily, he watches as I massage my shoulders and roll my neck.

"Sorry. I had to restrain you. You were thrashing around, and I thought you were going to strangle yourself in the sheets."

I nod and take in the destruction of the bedding. I don't want to think about things being ripped apart. My shirt is sticking to me, and my hair is coated against my forehead. Despite the sweat, I feel cold. So cold. And clammy. John makes a halted motion to grab my shoulder and stops halfway through.

"You were clawing at your back in your sleep. I think you scratched yourself pretty badly," he says gently. "Can I see?"

At my nod, he leads me into the bathroom. My motions are awkward and slow, but he's patient with me. We both squint as he flips on the light. Blinking in disorientation, I push down the toilet lid and sit on it, turning my back to him. Hesitant fingertips linger at the hem of my shirt and nudge slightly at the fabric. For some reason, he stops. _It's okay. It's okay, John. It's okay._

He still doesn't move to take off my shirt, so I grip the front of it and begin pushing up on it. Remembering himself, he pulls it the rest of the way off. My skin rises with tiny pinpricks against the cold. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I feel my shoulders tense. I feel terribly, terribly exposed. This is unbearably intimate. I hear his hiss as my back comes under his scrutiny in the fluorescent light. _You don't like it as much as you thought you would, do you, John? Having me back? I'm not a grave you can romanticize anymore. I'm a flesh-and-blood person. And that's very, very inconvenient for you._

"Christ," he says faintly as his fingers trace over the map of scars on my back. His fingers are soft on my skin but leave a burning path in their wake. Though they're there in a medical capacity, every touch feels like a caress. Through the haze of the drugs, my tactile senses are heightened and confused.

My muscles cramp as they seize up from the cold and from the tension. The plastic is hard beneath me, sending bruises up my spine. My toes curl over the cool, porcelain edge of the lid. And then, there's John, with his warm, whispery touch.

"How are you feeling?"

"My back hurts, now that you mention it."

"Well, you did manage to get a few scrapes in there, but none of them are too deep."

He begins cleaning up the blood.

"I feel tired, too." As I say it, I realize how true the words are. Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids and floods through my body.

"That'll be the drugs. She said she gave you a more concentrated dose this time."

"Well, it certainly felt more potent." I give an involuntary shiver as I remember the wall of images that had assaulted me after she had plunged the needle into my neck. I know I had lost hours to the crippling, befuddling, mess of chemically-induced visions, but that's about all I know. Memories and dreams don't want to separate themselves, and I don't know what I lived and what I imagined. "She'll be around in the morning to survey the damage, no doubt."

John makes a small, disapproving noise as he covers up the scratches that I managed to gouge in my sleep.

"Well, that takes care of the _cuts_," I can hear him balk. _Don't ask, John. There are some things you don't want to know. _"Sherlock, where did the scars come from?"

I shift uncomfortably.

"Moriarty's network is made up of a lot of dangerous men."

A sigh erupts across my back, and I start as his hot breath jumps over my skin.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"All of it. Any of it. I mean, God, I didn't know…didn't understand…"

_Oh, John_.

"Why, Sherlock?"

I can tell from the quiet strain in his voice that he's asked the question many times before, and I can hear the pain in it that tells me that he doesn't really want the answer. Not right now. Not in this stark, white space.

"Let me see," he says suddenly, authoritatively.

He's in front of me now, squatting down so that he's eye-level with me. My knees are a barrier between us. He's reaching around them and pulling at my hands that are somehow planted against my chest again.

"Let me see," he repeats, his face forbidding. "Where she shot you. Let me see."

My feet slither to the floor, but my hands stay where they are. Inexplicably, I can feel my heart racing beneath them. I shake my head in time with the throbbing. But John is insistent. "You always do that. Like it hurts you. You told me that it does. Is something wrong? Is it infected? I can help you. Let me see."

_You can't help me, John. You can't make it go away. It's okay, though. It's okay, John. It's okay. _I let him pull my hands away. His face remains impassive as he takes in the small, whitish-pink pucker of skin. His fingers seem to stutter as he reaches forward. His eyes race over the expanse of my chest, taking in the ugly seam where they cut me open. He looks as though he might vomit. I'm feeling distinctly nauseous myself. Under his gaze, my skin starts to itch. It burns, like it's splitting apart. I wrap my arms around my sides to hold myself together. His hand still hovers between us, our skin a breath apart. A part of me—one that is stronger than I would like to admit—longs for the contact. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before dropping to the ground. I give a deep breath that chokes off a bit at the end.

"You have to forgive, her, John."

He gives a small, almost undetectable nod. But it's not in agreement. Wordlessly, he hands me my shirt, and I slip it back on. We both stand at the same time. Awkwardly, we move around each other, keeping careful distance between us. There is static in the dead space that separates us. We don't breach it, and we don't talk.

As John washes his hands, I move woodenly out of the bathroom. I stumble slightly and catch myself against the doorframe. His head shoots up in alarm, and he reaches over to steady me.

Grimacing, I find my footing. "Whatever she gave me really took a toll."

"Well, if there were other drugs in your system, it could be having unanticipated effects."

I freeze. We stare evenly at one another. He knows.

"I asked you if you had relapsed, and you told me no."

"Actually, I chose not to answer. Besides, it was less of a relapse and more of a...sustained capitulation."

He sags against the bathroom counter. He doesn't want to have this fight. I grab my chest to stop the surge of pain. His hand is there again, suspended in the air between us. His fingers curl into his palm as though he's contemplating pulling my hand away. Instead, he turns back to washing his hands.

I push off from the doorway and careen into the bedroom. Moving leadenly in the dark, I go back to my bed and sit on the edge of it. He's still washing his hands. He's scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing them. _Not everything can come clean. _ After a few minutes, the water cuts off, and a few seconds later, so does the bathroom light. Suddenly, I'm hyperaware of his presence. I can feel him hovering in the dark. I can hear the gears turning in his head as he debates with himself over something. I can sense him moving towards me.

The bed sinks slightly as he settles beside me. We still don't touch, but we are so close that every nerve in my arm is tingling. His body heat washes over me. My body pulses as I absorb it.

"Are you going to go back to sleep?"

"No." I don't say why, but we both know anyway. We both know what lurks in the depths of my mind. We both know that there are monsters just behind my lids. He's been seeing these horrible things for years. _Now I see them too, John._

"No. No, neither am I."

We keep sitting in the dark. Out of nowhere, his hand shoots out and clasps my knee. It's a heavy, dead weight on me. _Why are you doing this, John? You never touch me. Unless I'm hurt. _ I can feel him shaking. Just a slight tremor. _ It's okay. It's okay, John. It's okay. No one can see this. It'll be like it never happened._

He clears his throat, and I jump slightly. Night has stripped our defenses bare. I feel raw: all ragged edges and frayed nerves.

"Was it a nightmare?"

"All dreams are nightmares, being that they are absent of logical thought."

"Was it a bad one?"

"They're all bad."

We're speaking in stiff, stilted tones. Our voices have a calculated, dead quality to them. Like we're pretending that this conversation is as inconsequential as the weather. With the hand that isn't on my knee, John rubs his eyes.

"When did they start?"

"A month ago."

The air compresses around us. The drugs seem to be inhibiting my breathing. I'm having a hard time swallowing, and my head is thrumming with the pressure that is building in my nasal cavity and shooting up through my temples.

"Why did you do it, Sherlock?"

"Why did I do what?"

"All of it. Any of it."

Instead of answering, I move away and lie down. His hand makes a dull thud as it falls away from me. The dark shape that is John starts moving away.

"No. Stay where you are." _Stay exactly where you are. _I don't meant to say it, but I can tell that it hurts him. He has very little capacity for retention, but he has undoubtedly committed that last phone call to memory.

"Why?"

There are so many things that he could be asking, but I answer the simplest of them.

"Because that's what John Watson is for." I don't want to say any of these words, but they are pulled out of me.

I don't know how long we stay there, but I know it's long enough for him to think that I've fallen back asleep. With a heavy sigh, he stands up. He doesn't go immediately to bed, however. Instead, he comes to linger by me.

"Nothing touches you, Sherlock. Nothing. Not death. Not suffering. Not other people."

_You don't believe that, John._

"No. I'm sorry." He huffs in apology. "You just act like they don't."

My chest pounds.

"So why did you do it, Sherlock? And why didn't you take me with you?" He's angry now. That's good. It's better than the pity, and it's better than the pain. "Why did you do it?"

_For you, John. All for you. You're the loose thread and the snag all at once. The cornerstone and the flaw in the foundation. The solution and the miscalculation._ But that's okay. Because it's John. It's okay.

* * *

**My main thrust thus far has been characterization, but the plot's definitely about to pick up. With the arrival of The Woman, things are bound to get...messy.**

**This chapter sort of leads into the next, so I just went ahead and posted them at the same time.**

**Thanks for reading! xxx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Because there are some things that even Mycroft cannot fix.**

* * *

_"I am...Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do."_

* * *

5. We're Just Friends, Tangled up in Loose Ends

~One Month Earlier~

"It's been quite the project cleaning up the mess you've made, little brother."

"Well, idle hands have never served you well, so I suppose I did you a favor. Besides, you always love to be on the ground floor of crises."

"Speaking of…you're familiar with the concept and mechanics of implosions, are you not?"

"Ye-es."

"Enlighten me."

"Intense outer pressures act on an object, causing it to collapse in on itself. You, with your dramatic inclinations, are no doubt tempted to draw certain parallels."

"The metaphor practically writes itself, Sherlock."

"_Enlighten me._"

"It surely doesn't need telling that you have certain self-destructive tendencies. We are only as strong as the materials that make us up. Right now, I'm not entirely sure what's holding you together, but your weaknesses are glaringly obvious. And it won't take much force to trigger a collapse."

"Which brings us to a more important point of discussion: Moriarty. That was _very_ convenient timing for him to make a reappearance."

"I suppose you think I had something to do with it."

"You told me that his corpse on the roof was dealt with, but you were rather sparse on the details."

"It seems I have a bit of a confession to make. That day you jumped, Moriarty wasn't quite dead. But he was willing to play it for a while."

"So, you helped fake two suicides in one day. That's quite a feat; even for you."

"Indeed. I even managed to hide it from you. Granted, there were other things you were dealing with at the time, but still, it took a certain amount of finesse."

"So Moriarty wanted to disappear for a while…why?"

"As you know, only a desperate man fakes his death. A man who has something to hide—or hide from."

"Who could he possibly have to hide from?"

"Magnussen. Apparently, he had some very dangerous information on Moriarty. Information he threatened to release should Moriarty cross him."

"Moriarty must have had something equally dangerous on Magnussen if neither one of them was eager to pull the trigger. There they were: twonuclear weapons, trained on one another, waiting to fire. Mutually assured destruction."

"And I had control over them both. Which is why I told you not to go against Magnussen."

"You didn't honestly think that either one of them was going to tell _you_ their secrets. Did you?"

"It was worth a try. Anyway, whatever he had on Magnussen is irrelevant now, being that—thanks to you—he's dead. But a pressure point on Moriarty…"

"Admittedly, that would prove helpful right now, but you already had a pressure point on him in the form of Magnussen. So, if you had leverage on him, why help him? Why make me go through with the plan?"

"Your goal to destroy his network was a worthwhile endeavor, and as long as I had him neutralized, I figured it would be beneficial to allow you to bring your plan to completion."

"Two years, Mycroft. I was gone for two years. You let me throw my life away for TWO YEARS?"

"Kindly sit down, Sherlock. I didn't _let _you do anything. To date, you have now thrown your life away _twice_. And we both know that you didn't have my ambitions of serving the greater good when you did so."

"The _greater good_?"

"Yes, Sherlock. What I do is very difficult, but I am able to do it because I am not impeded by sentimentality. Even when it comes to you."

"Believe me, _brother_, I figured that out when you put me on a plane to my death. Oh, but don't worry; that was _hours_ ago. I've moved on by now."

"I should hope so. You've got a war to fight, and I'm the only ally you've got left."

"Hm."

"What? Don't tell me you still think the good doctor will be coming to your aid. He's got a family to think about now. One that doesn't involve you. As you know from experience, he's loyal to a fault. He will put his wife and child above everything else. Even if she did shoot you."

"Figured that out, did you?"

"You had me do a full background check on her the moment you escaped from the hospital. What else was I supposed to think?"

"Have you managed to find out anything about who she was before she was Mary Morstan?"

"No."

"How disappointing. Though, I shouldn't be surprised. After all, it took you _ages_ to dismantle the life of Richard Brook."

"Yes. Her life story has been thoroughly cloaked. And you killed the only person who would have been able to shed light on the topic."

"And in so doing, would have endangered her life."

"What do you care? She endangered yours. But you didn't do it for her, did you? There is no limit to what you're willing to do for John Watson. Because you made him integral to your structure."

"He's my friend, and nothing more."

"Denial? You're better than that. You've gone to unimaginable lengths for him."

"Don't be ridiculous Mycroft—"

"It's not _I_ being ridiculous, brother dear. You have invested far too much into that relationship. You are willing to go too far. There was a time when he would have done the same, but you ruined that when you disappeared for two years. I told you to loop him in, but you wouldn't listen. You never listen, and I am never wrong. I hope you hear me now because there are only so many times you can cheat death.

"Forget John Watson. He forgot you. He moved on. While your little reunion was nice, it can't last. Leaving him behind this time won't break him like it did the first time. But staying around will break you. It's pointless destruction, Sherlock."

"Need I remind you that implosions don't destroy anything but the object that falls?"

"But you forget that it is I who has to sift through the rubble."

* * *

**I've just realized that I've been incredibly remiss in acknowledging the inspiration behind my work and chapter titles. Just so I can give credit where credit is due, (also because someone sent me a message asking about them) I'll provide a list now.**

**"A Burning Reminder"—Death Cab for Cutie, "Home is a Fire"**  
**"Sooner or Later, It All Comes Apart"—Ian Axel, "Fall on Me"**  
**"The Darker the Secret, the Harder You Keep It"—Jack's Mannequin, "At Full Speed"**  
**"It Kills Me to Know What You Can't Hide"—Stages and Stereos, "More Than Memories"**  
**"All the Monsters that Hide in My Head and Keep Me 'til Dawn"—Jack's Mannequin, "The Last Straw"**  
**"We're Just Friends, Tangled up in Loose Ends"—Ed Sheeran, "I'm Glad I'm Not You"**

**I'm not saying that the lyrics within the songs specifically pertain to their corresponding chapters, but I just found the phrasing therein to be particularly striking. I love music and can reconcile myself to almost any genre as long as I like the lyrics, so those tend to be what I focus on. What can I say? I'm a words girl! From now on, I'll just include the song at the end of every chapter.**

**As always, a big thank you to anyone who read! xxx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Sometimes, the hardest thing to watch is the thing you knew was coming all along.**

* * *

_"Go, John. Go now."_

* * *

6. We Met Beside a Landmine, Waiting for the Wind to Blow

I meant to watch him through the night. I don't know how long I'd stood there, at his side, staring at him while he'd slept, but I hadn't been able to tear myself away. My heart was pounding so hard, I could feel my chest moving with the thrust of it. I had gone lightheaded as my body throbbed with the force of my blood pulsing to the tips of my fingers, turning them numb. I had been wrenched between the desire to go to him and the desire to get as far away as possible. In the end, the two urges had cancelled each other out, and I'd just stood there for agonizing minutes.

Finally, I'd managed to drag myself back to my own bed, propping myself against the headboard so that I was facing him. I meant to stay awake and watch him, just to make sure he was still there. It had been a comfort to be able to do that in the dark, where he wouldn't know I was doing it. I used to watch him all the time when he'd first come back—just to reassure myself—but I'd stopped once he'd started mocking me for it.

Just another reason why he was insufferable: he was always taking the heaviest things inside of me and making them trivial.

I thought I had gone crazy when I saw him in that restaurant; thought my desperate longings had made him manifest. I would wake from dreams thinking he was still dead. It would be well past midnight when I'd wake, but I'd text him anyway, needing a response. And, invariably, no matter the hour, it would come. Sometimes, I still think I'm crazy. But last night, there, in that bed, I'd known he was real, and I couldn't bear to look away.

I must have fallen asleep, though, because I wake up with my arm asleep and a crick in my neck. His bed is empty. I try to push down the anxiety that always accompanies his absence. I only relax when I hear him moving around in the other room of the suite. Distantly, I hear a door opening, and the fear's back again. But long after it closes, I can still him hear him in the room. The tension in me partly releases. _It's okay. He's still here. He hasn't left me behind._

With a groan, I push out of bed and stumble for the bathroom. I turn the on hot water and let it run until the steam fills the room. The air feels sticky with the memories from last night. The things that we said and the things that we didn't hover around me. I feel like I'm choking on them. Rubbing my shoulder, I step into the shower and let the heat release the remaining tension in my back.

Closing my eyes, I try not to think. It's quite a difficult thing to do, despite what Sherlock believes. Little thoughts keep nudging at the back of my mind, but I don't indulge them. I can't; because if I do, then I will have to acknowledge everything he'd said to me. And right now, it's too much information to sift through. Especially when I know he'll be watching me grapple with it all.

Suddenly, I'm afraid to get out of the shower, scared to face him. What if something has been altered between us? Our relationship feels like it's on a knife's edge. So much of who we are to one another has been forged in dangerous situations. But this is a new kind of danger, and it feels like one that we can't possibly survive. Lately, all of our conversations are fraught, our interactions laced with strain and urgency. Our lives have been at risk before, as have our health and possibly our sanity, but what we stand to lose now is much more terrifying. I wonder if he knows.

_Sherlock. Is that why you keep pushing me away?_

Finally, I turn off the water. Time to be brave.

Toweling myself dry, I pull clothes on without really paying attention to what I'm doing. Sherlock's suitcase is on the floor at the foot of his bed, overflowing with his careless packing. Morbid curiosity seizes me, and before I can change my mind, I stumble toward it. I don't know what I expect to find, but I rip through it, tossing aside clothes. There's nothing here. Feeling slightly ashamed of myself, I put everything back and flip the lid closed. Though there was no discernable order to the mess, I know he'll be able to tell I've gone through it.

I wonder how it is that we've come to this: both of us so hurt. And we're doing it to ourselves and to each other. And I have a sinking feeling that I don't even know the half of it. _What's worse, _I wonder,_ the pain we cause knowingly or the pain we cause unknowingly?_ I'm worried, I realize, always worried now that I'm going to cause him some harm with everything I say and do. And I'm equally worried that he's going to do the same thing to me.

Tempting as it is, I can't hide in here forever. With a resigned grunt, I push to my feet and head for the door that leads to the other room. Sherlock waits on the other side of the door, possibly bringing more messes and more complications. I'm more or less prepared to face him as I push it open. What I'm not prepared for is seeing her again.

They're sitting on couches across from each other, staring into one another's eyes, drinking tea, and not speaking. Out of all the things I've been through with Sherlock, this still feels like one of the most bizarre scenes I've ever walked into. His mask is back on, full of indifference, but his grip on his cup is a little too tight. She looks calculating and unruffled. The corner of her mouth is pulled up into a coy smirk. Neither one of them acknowledges me.

Rather pointedly, I cross between them to the room service cart that Irene no doubt brought with her. They continue sipping their tea, calm as you please. And they just stare and stare at each other. Their weird little version of flirting. This irritates me. I chalk it up to lack of decent sleep. I grumpily shovel food into my mouth, chewing defiantly and making as much noise as possible.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson. " She turns her head ever so slightly in my direction without breaking eye contact with Sherlock.

"Oh," I say feigning surprise. I look around like I can't believe she's noticed me. "Good morning, Ms. Adler. Lovely day, isn't it? And how are you liking America? It's better than being dead, I expect."

She smiles pleasantly in the face of my sarcasm.

"Well, this place is absolutely replete with individual greed and political corruption. Secrets and lies are practically the national currency. And blackmail is the universal language."

"So naturally, you manifest!"

"You flatter me. Though, I do imagine that I've quite flourished here."

Sherlock gives a little snort of derisive laughter—the noise he usually makes when someone is wrong about something. Irene looks away from him for the first time to stare at me. I see the smallest flicker of fear in her eyes before she schools it away. _Well, that's interesting._

"What are you even doing here?"

"The official story was that I had gotten into a witness protection scheme here, so the groundwork for the lie had already been laid. Admittedly, I didn't want to leave London, but certain complications might have arisen if I'd stayed there."

Infuriatingly, she's stopped looking at me. Her gaze is back on Sherlock, and they're staring at one another like they're the most interesting things in the world. At the same time, they finish their tea and set their cups on the table. Perfect mirror images of each other. I glare at the carpet. Sherlock steeples his fingers below his chin, and Irene crosses her legs and leans toward him enticingly.

"So, what brings _you_ here?"

Her eyes are trained on him, busily drinking in his face. I roll my eyes. It's nice to know that I've been effectively cut out of the conversation. I go back to resentfully chomping on my breakfast. Sherlock inhales and drops his fingers away.

"You owe me a debt, and I've come to collect."

"I never asked you to save me."

"Well, if you'd prefer the alternative, I'm sure that can be arranged. There are several interested parties who would just love to know your whereabouts."

"And no doubt the elder Mr. Holmes is one of them. What would big brother say if he knew you were making deals with the devil?"

"You're not the devil."

_I'd like to disagree_.

Irene smiles, but there's an edge to it. She reaches for her cup. Discovering it empty, she sets it back down. Her fingers are shaking almost unnoticeably. It's a small slip, but it's very telling. She's not as calm as she's pretending to be. And she definitely doesn't like the turn this conversation has taken. Even I can see it which means that whatever's got her spooked is very bad news. Sherlock's gaze is riveted on her face. Rolling her eyes, she sighs and settles back on the couch.

"Doesn't anyone stay dead anymore?"

She pouts playfully, but I can practically taste how eager she is to steer the subject away from Moriarty.

"Apparently, only the least desirable people don't." I regret it the second I say it. Jerkily, Sherlock looks at me. His fingers flutter upward, hesitate at his chest, and then finally settle again into a steeple under his chin. His eyes flicker away. I had only meant to include two people in that statement, but I had forgotten about the third.

"Or maybe they're just the most tenacious," Irene interjects.

Her eyes are racing back and forth between me and Sherlock. She's no doubt picked up on the tension between us. He won't look at me. Before I can stop it, my hand reaches out in his direction. He looks at it out of the corner of his eye, and I close it into a fist.

"Tenacity is certainly one of Moriarty's more inconvenient traits," Sherlock finally responds.

"Yeah, that, and you know, his insanity," I shoot back. He gives a snort of laughter. His smile is lost behind his fingertips. Even though it shouldn't, his approval gives me a small strum of satisfaction.

Hostility is rolling off of her in waves.

"So what is this favor that you've come to ask of me?"

"It's not a favor. It's a debt owed. Dangerous people were after you, and I saved your life. Now, it's your turn."

"If you think I'm going to go up against Moriarty—"

"Of course I don't. That would hardly be a war between equals. No. What I'm looking for is ammunition."

"I don't know what you're expecting. I did a single deal with him. _He_ got in touch with _me_. We had limited contact with each other during that and none after."

Sherlock's leaning forward, eyes glinting.

"Oh, that's not true, is it? You're clever. He would have seen that. Would have liked that. Would have wanted to keep you around. And he's powerful. Got connections everywhere. You would have known that. Would have loved that. Would have wanted to stick around. And you never work with anyone without learning all of their secrets. It's how you make your way in the world. So tell me. What is the weak spot in his armor?"

"He doesn't have one."

"Everyone has one."

"Not him."

"You're lying."

Though it doesn't seem to be a farfetched declaration, (lying is, after all, her perpetual state) I still wonder why he sounds so confident. Her mouth turns down, and she moves to grab her teacup again. Halfway through the motion, she remembers that it's empty, and she clasps her hands together in an attempt at an awkward recovery. She gives an unhappy sigh.

"The best I can give you is a warning. But I know you won't listen, so even that won't do you much good. Don't go after him. It's what he wants. It's all a game to him, and there's no way he can lose."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you have something that he doesn't, and it's not to your advantage."

"I hardly see how his lacking something is a disadvantage for me."

"Believe me, this particular thing is especially debilitating."

"And what would that be?"

"A past."

Sherlock's face is rigid.

"Pasts are inconsequential. Things we leave behind."

"No. They stay with you, cruel captors that they are. They hold you hostage, leave their marks on you…and in you."

"How nostalgic," he sneers, but I don't quite believe his bravado. Suddenly, it doesn't feel like I can trust anything going on in this room. _What did Irene mean that Moriarty doesn't have a past, and what is she implying in saying that Sherlock does?_

Sherlock hefts himself to his feet and starts to walk away. "Sorry, John. It turns out that this was a colossal waste of time."

"If you're not worried about yourself, maybe you should worry about your friends. Moriarty likes to dig, and he will drag out everything they tried to bury." Irene stands too, her tone victorious despite it's grimness. Turning his back to her, Sherlock wrenches open the door to the bedroom and goes inside.

And I'm left alone with her. Lovely.

"What _have_ you done to him, Dr. Watson?"

"Me?" I raise my eyebrows in questioning disbelief.

"He's a little broken, isn't he? And I certainly didn't do it."

_So, she's noticed, too._ Instead of responding to her, I open the door to the hall, an unequivocal suggestion for her to leave. Simpering all the while, she brushes past me and heads out the door. With one final, knowing smile over her shoulder, she heads down the hallway and doesn't look back.

Back in the bedroom, I find Sherlock, sitting on his bed, his back to me. He's hunched over with his arm cradled against his chest. I go over to him to see what he's doing. My stomach turns over when I catch sight of the white expanse of his forearm. _It could be worse_, I tell myself. _It could be much worse_. Unsurprisingly, that thought doesn't make me feel much better.

Two rows of patches run up and down his left arm, meticulously applied, the exact same distance apart.

"Jesus, Sherlock." I count eight. He doesn't even argue with me as I start peeling them off. Surreptitiously, my eyes fly to the crook of his elbow. I don't see track marks, but he's clever, and he's been an addict for a long time. He knows how to hide these things. My gaze has lingered too long, and I can feel his piercing stare. Unthinkingly, I run my thumb over the small patch of skin. His arm goes rigid in my grasp, but he doesn't pull away.

With his eyes still following me, I stand up to go throw away the patches. I linger over the trashcan for a long time, my heart thudding in my chest. When I turn back around, I'm unsurprised to see his hands pressed up against his chest. He's not looking at me anymore.

"Go away."

It shouldn't hurt me, but it does. Balking, I take a half-formed step towards him. Again, I reach out to him. I always do that now. The desire to touch him, to make sure he's real, is nothing new. I used to be able to restrain it, but lately, the compulsion has proven too strong.

It would seem that a weakness in him triggers something similar in me.

"I said go away. I need to think."

"Alright. Fine."

Inching around him, I head for the door. Subconsciously, I recognize that I'm always looking for tripwires and landmines around him. _Why do we do this, Sherlock? It's like we're looking for ways to fall apart._

* * *

One thing that I know for sure about myself is that I'm good in a crisis. I thrive under pressure, know how to channel an adrenaline rush and keep a cool head. I can look into the mouth of a loaded gun, and I can stitch a dying man back together. But for whatever reason, I can't fix this. I tip back another drink.

Something is wrong with Sherlock. That much is glaringly obvious. And that's about the only thing that is. And the worst part? I can see this coming, can feel it looming: our ultimate disintegration. Our trajectory unfolds before me. It's not as though we are hurtling toward this at a breakneck rate. In some ways, it would be better if we were. Because then, I might be able to stop it. But this is harder because it's slower. We have more time to hurt one another; more ways to break each other apart. It's a sluggish sort of free fall that we're doing, and it's far more terrifying than if we just plummeted. Now, we just have too much time and too much space to think about things.

Tiredly, I push away from the hotel bar. I can't think about these things anymore, especially not while being imbued with copious amounts of alcohol. Besides, Sherlock always did better with abstract concepts like this, anyway. No doubt he's put a lot of thought into our mutual unravelling. I can just picture him in his mind palace, pulling at us until we come unspooled. The thought makes me giggle. It really shouldn't.

I stumble back to our room. When I push open the door, I can tell that something is off. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. The room's too still. Too quiet. He's not here. As I go into the bedroom, creeping disbelief begins to take me over. There's no sign of his suitcase and no trace of him. It's much too easy to believe it, even if I don't want to.

_The bastard left me_.

* * *

Mary's waiting for me outside the airport. I climb into our car and try to ignore the smile that's winning against her self-control.

"Typical Sherlock," she murmurs with a chuckle as she starts driving us home.

Desperately, I want to laugh and agree, but I can't. Because while it's normal for him to forget about me every now and then, it's an entirely different matter for him to ditch me on another continent.

"Something's wrong with him."

Something in my tone sobers her.

"What happened?"

"I don't rightly know. I was there with him the whole time, and I couldn't tell you. But whatever's going on with him, it's not normal."

"Is anything ever normal with Sherlock, though?"

"You know what I mean. I'm worried about him. We have to watch out for him. You two can't keep secrets from me anymore."

She's watching the road calmly, but her mouth is taut.

"He told me about the drugs," I say quietly. "He didn't mean to, but he was a bit incapacitated at the time."

"Are you angry?"

"No. I just wish you would have told me. For one thing, you shouldn't have been dealing with that on your own, especially in your condition. Also, he hasn't been given the proper help. If you wouldn't tell me, why not tell Mycroft?"

"He asked me not to."

"And clearly, his judgment is always sound! Why would you agree to keep quiet for him?"

"Because I owed him that much!" She looks miserable and sounds worse. "After everything I put him through, lord knows that there is no end to what I owe that man."

"And the best way to repay him was to let him endanger the life you almost took?"

"I thought you said you weren't angry."

"I'm not. I'm just…fed up. And a bit at the end of my rope. I'm a doctor. I'm supposed to help people. And I'm his best friend. I'm supposed to know him better than anyone. But I don't know what the hell's wrong with him, and I don't know what to do."

"He's scared, John."

And, damn it, now so am I.

"Of what?"

"I don't know."

"Well, he's scaring me."

"I think that's what he's been trying to avoid. Even now, he's still trying to keep you out of the blast range."

Someone should probably tell him that it's a fool's errand. I've never seen two more combustible objects than me and him in my life.

And that's the trouble with Sherlock: everything with him is explosive, and he is forever hell-bent on making himself the wreckage.

* * *

**This chapter was horrifically difficult to write. This is version number six, and I'm still not pleased with it.**

**Chapter title inspiration: Jack's Mannequin, "Release Me"**

**Thanks if anyone's sticking with me! xxx**


	7. Chapter 7

**"Why" is a four-letter word.**

* * *

_"What might we deduce about his heart?"_

* * *

7. We Pick Ourselves Undone

The image on the screen haunts me day and night. It grows with my fears, every time bigger, more real. For a long time, I could convince myself that it existed only in that television screen. But Mary's stomach swells too large to ignore now. Three months. I have three more months to reconcile my life and hers. _Christ_.

I'd never given much thought to being a father. After the war and everything I'd been through with Sherlock, I'd just figured that that path would be closed to me. A lot of light had gone out of my life the day that he'd jumped off that roof. To say I was rudderless would be an understatement. I was directionless, the future seeming to dissolve before my eyes. Mary had put some of that back. My life was still dim around the edges, but a warm glow had been rekindled. There had been hope again.

Pressure on my hand draws me back to the present. Mary's eyes crinkle at the edges as she gives me a tentative smile that is equal parts happiness and concern. Somehow, I don't fully manage to return the expression. The sound of heartbeats is too loud in this room. Mine. Mary's. The baby's. With every collective thrum, the walls seem to crowd closer together. God, I can't breathe.

This was supposed to be the easy part. My life already came apart at the seams once. And Mary had stitched it back together. We weren't supposed to come unraveled like this. I can't do this. Not again. We have to fix this. For her sake—the baby's sake.

With a quaking grip, I squeeze her hand and turn stinging eyes back to the monitor. She barely looks real; she is nothing more than a greenish-blue glow on a tiny, black screen. It's a small window to a world that holds too much promise for me to trust it completely. But I'm willing to try.

The technician starts to put her equipment away, offering assurances and congratulations on having a healthy baby girl. Mary beams at me, and I feel something unfurl in my chest. Happiness. It's happiness.

We walk out of the hospital, side by side. Naturally, without even thinking about it, I drape an arm around her shoulders and bring her close. Tentatively, she lays her head against my chest. We both freeze at the same time in mutual hesitation. This easy touching shouldn't feel strange, but it does.

My phone vibrates at my side, and I pull it out. To my surprise, (and slight disappointment if I'm being honest) it's not from Sherlock, but from Lestrade.

**Got a case. Could use a hand.**

With a troubled frown, I type back a quick response.

**Wrong number, mate. I think you meant to text the other one.**

Almost instantly, he replies.

**Other one's already here and even more unbearable than usual. Could really use some help.**

"What is it?" Mary's watching me closely, not with suspicion, but with cautious curiosity.

"It's Greg. He's on a case. Sherlock's there, and apparently, Greg can't keep him in hand."

"How bad can he be?"

"I don't know, but if Greg can't handle him," I pause, a ghastly thought dawning on me. I look at Mary with growing horror. "You don't think he'd show up, high, do you?"

"No. Of course not." I don't think either one of us completely believes her. She blows out a puff of air that sends stray hairs along her forehead flying. When she speaks again, she sounds more confident. "He's not that far gone."

_Yet_. Neither of us says it, but we both hear it. She rubs my arm reassuringly.

"You should go."

"Mary," I sigh. "He doesn't want me there. Besides, the last case we worked together didn't turn out all that well."

"It's been two weeks. You can't avoid him forever just because he hurt your feelings."

"He didn't hurt my feelings!"

"And I'll just pretend that you didn't just stomp your foot." A sly smile curls across her face, and I feel my shoulders hunch.

"I did not."

She's exaggerating, but I can't deny that there's a certain hint of sullenness about my tone.

"Besides," I continue, "if he doesn't want me around, then I don't want to be around."

We reach the car, and I get her door for her, wrenching it open harder than I probably need to. I climb into the driver's seat and slam the door behind me. Mary mutters something about dealing with unreasonable children, and I give her a peevish glance.

"I'm not being unreasonable. He is."

"John. You need to go over there and make things right."

"I didn't do anything wrong! Why is this on me? Why does he get a free pass?"

"Because he's Sherlock." She gives a fond chuckle and cards her hand through my hair.

"That can be used to explain a lot of things, and not all of them good."

But already, I'm climbing out of the car and handing her the keys. Knowing smile in her eyes, Mary gets out and walks around to the other side. She presses a kiss to my cheek and gives it a pat.

"I'll see you when you get home."

Pulling out my phone, I search for a cab. Greg already texted me the address.

* * *

When I get to the crime scene, I can feel the tension in the air as if it's a physical presence. Everyone is clustered together and standing back, like they're steering clear of a blast radius. I can see Sherlock, a lanky figure stalking around, black coat swirling. With one last look at the body sprawled on the ground in front of him, he strides purposefully over to Greg.

I reach them just in time to hear him ask Sherlock if he's sure.

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock snaps. Cagily, his eyes flick around to the small grouping of people watching him as if he's daring one of them to question him. Suddenly, he winces, his hands flying up to his head. Massaging his temples, he levels a scathing look in Greg's direction. His eyes flick over and give me a quick, dismissive scan.

Without preamble, he launches into a full explanation of the crime scene, the victim, and the perpetrator. In between his factual listing, he manages to wedge in insults that spare no one. Donovan opens her mouth to retort, but Greg elbows her, an action I deem wise. Sherlock is known to spew vitriol on his better days. Who knows what he's capable of in a mood as black as this.

I didn't think it was possible, but his behavior is even more erratic than it was the last time I saw him. He keeps stopping at random moments to clutch at some part of his body—his shoulder, his stomach, his head—as if he's in pain. At this particular moment, he's running his hand down the back of his neck, a cringe evident in his expression.

And he keeps jerking around at random moments to check over his shoulder. What he's looking for, I can't even begin to fathom. He looks paranoid and guarded, and there is a possessive stoop to his shoulders, as though he's trying to keep out even the stares of others. His words are short and clipped, and should someone so much as breathe loudly during his monologue, he affixes them with a cutting look: an admonishment for an interruption that hasn't even happened yet. Greg shoots me a look of commiseration. 'See what I've been dealing with,' it seems to say. I try to force a sympathetic smile, but my mouth doesn't want to cooperate.

His tirade at an end, Sherlock looks at Greg, chest heaving. He doesn't so much as glance at me again. With a smart snapping noise, Sherlock peels off his gloves and throws them to Greg before turning on his heel to leave, his coat billowing behind him.

"Hey!" I shout at his retreating back. "Slow down."

He falters for a moment before deciding to keep going. I jog up behind him and fall into step at his side. His hand is pressed steadily against his chest.

"What are you doing here?"

"Greg texted me."

"Clearly, it was a mistake. You are obviously superfluous."

I get the feeling that he means that in the larger sense, and I make a mangled noise that is torn between amusement and offense.

"Well, it's nice to be appreciated."

His frown deepens, and his fingers curl more tightly against the front of his shirt.

"No matter, John. I'll find another placeholder soon enough."

That stings more than it should. I'm rooted to the spot, smarting, but he keeps going without looking back. So, that's it then. I'm just a bookmark, an afterthought, a walking replacement for his bloody skull. I want to tell myself that he doesn't mean it, that he just does this when he feels backed into a corner or when he has too many emotions for him to know what to do with them all. But lately, I have become more and more unnecessary to him. He's started to put me on the shelf, forgetting about me and leaving me to collect dust.

It's a long way home, but I decide to walk at least part of the way, needing the fresh air and the exercise so that I can sort out my thoughts. Sherlock has always had a befuddling effect on me, but his presence resonates with _wrong_ now, and his absence does the same. He left a gaping hole when he'd left, and even though he'd come back, he doesn't quite seem to fit anymore.

I've been walking for a good twenty minutes when the black car pulls up beside me, the exhaust curling smugly behind it. _Great. Just what I need._ Mycroft rolls down the window, smiling pleasantly at me. Distrust festers in my stomach. If Sherlock is in the practice of keeping secrets these days, it stands to reason that Mycroft is privy to the worst of them. I wish people would stop protecting these things for him. I can't figure out why it bothers me so much, but grudgingly, I have to admit that it feels a lot like they're shielding him from _me_. Keeping him from _me_.

"Care for a chat?" He asks it as casually as if he's asking me if I fancy a stroll through the park. _Smug bastard_.

After some parsimonious consideration, I wrench open the door and climb in. As always, Mycroft is preoccupied with the various files that he's flipping through. With a slight huff of annoyance, I wonder if he'll even deign to acknowledge me. Somewhat bitterly, I note that more often than not, our little "chats" mainly consist of Mycroft categorically ignoring me while I twiddle my thumbs. Clearly, his superior and condescending manner are meant to intimidate. When I'd first met him, these manipulations, though transparent, were effective. At this point, however, we are well past all of the charades, and there's nothing he can do that will make me like or trust him. Or be intimidated by him. With a pinched smile, he looks over at me.

"So." The word has the smack of preeminence about it, like he's drawing himself up to make some grand inquisition or proclamation. Unimpressed, I raise my eyebrows. "I want to show you something."

"What?"

"You'll see."

Listlessly, I stare out the car window, watching grey, familiar streets pass me by. Recognition pricks at the back of neck. I know where he's taking me, but I don't want to believe it. This is far too cruel. Why would he put me through this? What is he trying to prove? Sensing my fury, he glances up at me.

"There's something here that I'm hoping you can help me understand."

I'm shaking with the indignity of it, but I can't deny that there's a forbidding kind of curiosity cropping up inside of me. _What could possibly be beyond Mycroft's understanding?_

We make the final turn, and another wave of outrage washes through me. _This has got to be some kind of sick joke_. I say as much to Mycroft, but his face only darkens as he puts his papers away. "It gets worse," he mutters ominously. We pull through the gates of the cemetery, and I try to fight down the tumult of emotions that unexpectedly hits me all at once. The path we're taking is hauntingly familiar. Subconsciously, I push up against the leather of the seat; my entire body is rebelling against being here. I can feel bile rising up and flooding through my mouth. Beads of sweat break out across the clammy expanse of my forehead. _He's not here_, I tell myself. _He was never there._

I didn't visit all that often—it was too hard—but I know where it is out of instinct. The car pulls to a halt, and Mycroft raises his eyebrows.

"I'll wait here, shall I?"

Asking him questions is useless, I know, but I still want to demand what exactly he's expecting me to do. Instead, I heft myself out of the car and take the familiar, punishing walk. Steeling my nerves, I remind myself that everything is different now.

_Maybe it's not even there anymore._

Fog swirls, and it hangs heavily around me. The thick air makes breathing near impossible.

My stomach bottoms out when I see him. I stop short. He looks like a ghost in the mist. It's hard to believe I'd just seen him not even an hour ago, vital and vigorous and very much alive. Now, with his waxy pale skin, he looks like a corpse.

Instead of walking over to him, I watch him from afar. A sharp pressure is coming to a point at the center of my forehead, and I find that I'm blinking rather hard. For the life of me, I can't figure out why this has me as thrown as it does. But too many of my nightmares have looked like this for me to breathe easily.

A cigarette dangles from his fingers, and even from the distance at which I'm standing, I can see the red tip glowing. White smoke unfurls from it and mixes with the haze pressing in around him. Steadily, he brings it to his lips and takes a long drag. And he's just staring at his grave. An eerie tingle runs up my back watching him. I want to go to him, but something stops me.

He holds the cigarette in front of his face as though considering it and then drops it. Beneath his feet, he grinds it into the grass that covers his grave.

I wait for him to turn around, to see me, but he doesn't. Hands shoved in his pockets, he keeps standing there in macabre fascination. He reaches a hand out, but he doesn't touch it. He just stands and stands and stands and stands. And stares. It makes my stomach turn over.

I watch him a few minutes more until I can't take any more of the morbid scene. I trail back the way I'd come. Suddenly, I feel very, very tired.

When I get back to the car, I glare into the tinted window for a long while before finally getting back in. Mycroft's face is carefully blank, but he's watching me too closely.

"So," I start. My 'so' has none of the importance his did. My voice wavers too much.

The car lurches back into movement, and Mycroft fixes me with his undivided attention, his fingers clasped at his stomach.

"My brother makes this little pilgrimage of his every day now."

"Why?"

"That is the question, isn't it? Is it a death wish? Some kind of narcissistic god complex that comes from defeating death? Sentiment?"

"No, that's not like him."

Eyebrows raised, Mycroft stares at me, worry plain on his face. "None of this is 'like him,' Dr. Watson."

Shifting uncomfortably, I debate with myself. Mycroft means well, but spilling Sherlock's secrets feels a lot like selling him out. I clear my throat. "He's Sherlock. He's brilliant and bizarre. This is what he does: strange things that no one understands."

"No."

It shouldn't, but that single world makes my blood boil. I hate the way it sounds. Like I'm a particularly slow child who's missing the point of a lesson. I bite back the urge to tell Mycroft that short of being inside of his head, I know Sherlock's thoughts better than anyone. Which mean I probably understand Sherlock better than he understands himself.

"Something else is going on. Tell me." His calm, razor-like gaze is upon me.

"He's…falling back into old habits."

His face doesn't move a tick, but its features somehow become even more forbidding.

"Why?"

"That is the question, isn't it?" I throw his words back at him mockingly. "Shouldn't you know? You spend more time with him now." The floodgates are open. "Surely you see how…unstable he's been lately. He's changed. He's—"

"Off kilter," Mycroft offers, looking grim.

"Yeah," I add lamely.

"And he can't afford to be. Moriarty's more elusive than ever. Sherlock will need to be sharp, be at his best, if he's going to go up against him."

"Hell, he hasn't even been _himself_ since he came back, let alone his best." My heart stutters in fear as I say the words. I've known it for a while, but saying it now, I feel the truth of it. It slides cold fingers down my spine. "I don't know what happened to him when he was gone, but it messed him up—bad. He held it together at first, but I could tell he was off. What happened with Magnussen, we were heading for that all along."

"Oh?" He's encouraging me, prompting me along. For some reason, this annoys me.

"He's breaking down." _A screw's loose. A gear's jammed_, I think morbidly. Quickly, I discard the thought, afraid to acknowledge what that means about his sanity.

"He's not a machine, John." I start at the familiar address and wonder for the umpteenth time if Mycroft can't read minds, after all. "He's not invulnerable."

"I know that," I snap. _But I didn't believe it_.

"He's a man. And men can bleed. You learned that the hard way."

My hands clench at the memory.

"Well, he's bleeding now," I say, continuing his metaphor.

"Why?"

_That is the question_. I don't respond.

"So what do we do," he muses, almost to himself.

_That's an even better question_.

The car whisks us along, but we're not going fast enough to escape this. Silence permeates the air between us. It's suffocating as it pushes against us, compresses the space around us. I assume that the conversation's over, so I resignedly turn to stare out the window again. Raindrops begin to spit against the glass.

"You know, sometimes I think I was wrong to let him do it."

I'm temporarily stunned into speechlessness. A Holmes admitting that he's wrong is a rare thing. Then, what he says catches up with me.

"What do you mean _let _him?You _helped _him do it. You planned it."

"I wasn't wrong about _that_."

"Then what?"

"I was wrong to let him leave you out."

I'm fairly certain my heart stops. Liquid heat drains through me. Seconds later, shivers creep over me. All along, I had convinced myself that it was Mycroft who had told Sherlock to leave me behind. It can't have been Sherlock's decision. _It can't._

"You were good for him John. Always have been. I tried to convince him to at least tell you the truth if he wouldn't take you with him, but he was adamant that you stay in the dark."

"Jesus," I mutter, running my hands over my face. What am I supposed to do with that knowledge? I don't want to know these things. I had already come to terms with Sherlock's 'death.' I don't want to open this up again. I can't.

He cut me out then, and he's cutting me out again now. The last time it happened, he'd ended up dead for two years. He'd barely escaped that time. Moriarty is a man who doesn't suffer failure. He wanted Sherlock dead two years ago, and this time, he's going to make sure it sticks.

"So what do we do?" Wearily, I echo his earlier words.

"Indeed." It's not an answer. But then, when it comes to Sherlock, there never really is one.

We pull up to my house. Without a word, I get out. Without glancing up at me, Mycroft starts scrolling through his phone. Soundlessly, the car glides away. Feeling hollow, I watch it disappear. I know I should go inside, but I can't make my feet move. I wonder if the blows will ever stop coming.

After a while, Mary joins me, takes my hand. She doesn't ask how it went. I assume my face tells her everything she needs to know. With a reassuring squeeze, she tugs me inside. I'm buoyed by her constancy. I feel as if the floor is falling away from me. Sherlock coming back was supposed to put everything back in its place. The only problem is that some days, it feels like he never really came back at all.

I let Mary sit me at the kitchen table. An unsteadying calm takes me over.

With firm fingers, I compose a text. I need to hear from him. Need to know he's not a body in a pit or a ghost by a grave.

**Are you okay?**

No response. Mary starts laying out dinner. I try again.

**Where are you?**

We eat, and I try to maintain unconcerned conversation. Mary doesn't need this stress. She doesn't ask. But we're both glancing at my phone with taut mouths and tight eyes. My fingers itch towards the buttons. I send another.

**Where are you?**

Then,

**Are you okay?**

The dishes are done, and we're sitting on the couch. I'm ramrod straight as some trivial show blares in the background. My phone is clutched in a death grip in my hand. Finally, a response comes.

**Irrelevant.**

It shouldn't hurt this much to breathe. Finally, I fire off a text to Mycroft, telling him to find his little brother. If I don't receive a response in the next twenty minutes, I'll have Mary take me to all of his hideouts until we find him.

The minutes tick by, too slow and too fast all at once.

"Mary," my voice sounds too pinched, too strained. I see the softened alarm in her eyes. My phone vibrates again. Mycroft.

**He's home.**

_No he's not_. Then the realization hits me. Baker Street. He's at Baker Street. That's home for Sherlock. A small voice floats at the back of my mind. _But I'm not there_. I squash it mercilessly. Mary's still watching me, waiting for me to continue speaking.

"Let's go to bed." I smile unconvincingly. Not questioning me, she follows me to our bedroom. We dress for bed and get under the covers in silence. Mary falls asleep quickly beside me. Tired as I am, I fight it. The memories wait for me. I know that the old recurring dream will be back in full force tonight. I don't want to have to face it. Not tonight. My phone lights up, and I bring it to my face.

**John.**

The text is odd and doesn't make sense. _Am I dreaming it? No. It's real. Why? Why did he send it?_ Nothing makes sense anymore. I close my eyes, but the words are seared into my brain. His text. My name. It's the last thing I remember before my eyes drift shut. I fall asleep to a resounding chorus of 'why.'

**…**

I pace the edge of the building, the familiar swooping sensation hollowing out my stomach. I have been here many, many times before. Hoisting myself onto the ledge, I let my toes hang off. I teeter on the edge.

"John."

The deep voice sends shockwaves through my body, and I whirl around to see the man who torments me day and night, even now. Seeing him here always jolts me, and this time is no different. I am surprised by the wave of longing that shoots through me. The urge to touch him, to make sure he is real, to make sure he is okay, seizes me. But he dances just out of reach, his visage shimmering and wavering as though he is just a trick of the light.

"Sherlock," I manage to choke out.

The glare of the sun is blinding at this point, and everything shines white. He doesn't smile at me, doesn't say anything. He only stares at me with that critical frown as though trying to deduce me. After a moment's pause, Sherlock joins me on the ledge. His pale eyes, now a soft blue to match the sky, watch me steadily.

"John, what are you doing up here?"

It's always the same question he asks, but I still don't have an answer for him. I shrug helplessly, and Sherlock's face darkens in anger and frustration.

"Give me a reason!" His shout echoes and tumbles across the empty rooftop until the wind carries it away. I flinch.

"Give me a reason!"

He seems to be saying a million things at once with the question, and I have a million things to say in return, but the dread of knowing what will follow this exchange is gnawing its way up my stomach and holding my words hostage. There is little I seem to be able to do other than stand agape in horror.

With a snort of annoyance, Sherlock turns away to survey the ground far below us.

"What are you doing, John?"

"I don't know," I reply miserably.

"Why are you here?"

"I don't know," I say, softer.

"What do you want?"

"I don't know." It's barely a whisper.

With a long, mournful look, Sherlock steps off the edge and disappears from sight. He slips away easily, as though it costs him nothing at all. He doesn't even seem to care that it costs me everything. A strangled groan escapes my throat as I lean over and watch Sherlock's tall form careening through the air.

_Just like flying_, I think dazedly.

And then, Sherlock is a crumpled heap on the ground, red pooling around him. Desperate, I leap wildly into the air after him. But even though I expect it—even though I long for it—no fall comes. It's as though there's some kind of transparent barrier holding me back, and try as I might, I can't break through.

Grief chokes me and swallows me up.

I claw uselessly at the air, scrambling in the unrelenting bubble.

_Why are you here? _His voice filters through my thoughts. _What do you want?_ It's a dull roar at the back of my head. _What do you want?_

"To follow you," I choke out. And finally, I fall. It's a relief as I plummet.

**…**

I wake up feeling more at peace than I should. I reach for my phone. I got one more text in the night, two hours after the first one.

**John.**

_Why?_

* * *

**Chapter title inspiration: Bastille, "Flaws"**

**xxx**


	8. Chapter 8

**Sherlock finds his way home.**

* * *

_"You. It's always you, John Watson. You keep me right."_

* * *

8. The Heft and Weight of a World Undone

**…**

The cracks are getting deeper. Black scars gaping in the wood. Craters form where the floorboards have been ruptured. Tentatively, I edge around them, gripping John's chair for support. Phantom smoke is rising from the crevices and drifting lazily in the sunlight. Languid tendrils reach for me and envelope me in a loving caress. Hauntingly, it hovers around me, obscuring me in a hazy cloud. Its touch begins to burn. I try to shake it off, but the smoke won't dissipate. It grows thicker, blacker, tighter. I sputter and cough. I'm choking on it. Choking on the ghosts.

I close my eyes to seek a different kind of darkness. Shadows dance behind my eyelids and whisper in my ears. Violently, I shake my head, but they won't leave me alone. They leach into my pores, and I feel them enter my bloodstream, ooze into my brain. Vicious osmosis. They tuck themselves into the corners of my mind and lurk at the edges. They fester there and turn into something worse.

The demons are trying to claw their way out of me. I can feel them pounding against my skull, forming cracks with every blow they land. My head is splitting apart. White hot pain shoots through me. I'm erupting from the inside out. Crumpling to my knees, I bring my hands to either side of my head. Wretched tears pour out as I try to hold myself together.

"Cracking up, Sherlock?"

I open my eyes, and I'm back on the roof. Moriarty's there, leering at me. His head's split open, and there are chunks of his face missing. Hands in his pockets, he strolls towards me leisurely. Completely unconcerned, he watches me writhe in agony, my hands still plastered to my head.

He bends over to whisper in my ear. "Just let it happen, Sherlock. Then you can be like me."

I grip my head tighter. My skull makes a popping noise under the pressure. "Sherlock," he whispers. I clutch harder, trying to block out his voice. "Sherlock." My cranium is collapsing.

The cracks are getting deeper.

**…**

"Sherlock?"

I stir slightly, the voice prodding at some awareness at the back of my mind. The astonishment in it is overpowered by the dread.

"Sherlock! Can you hear me?" Wood crackles. Weight shifts. He's crouching over me. I can feel the shade of him, the protective hunch. Every nerve ending is alight with pain. My body is a bruise. I can't escape the ache. Though I am lying still, I feel as though I'm being perpetually slammed against the ground with every breath I take.

"Sherlock." Balmy hands are on my face. They feel nice. I curl toward the warmth, the wonderful, curative warmth. I am so cold. How did I not realize it before? I am so cold.

"Sherlock." _What's the matter, John? I'm right here. You're right here. What could possibly be wrong?_ "Can you hear me?" I murmur in assent. _Of course I can, John. I always hear you. Even when you think I'm not listening._

"Okay. Okay." I can't tell if he's reassuring me or if he's reassuring himself. The pressure on my face increases, thumbs pressing against my cheeks and dragging upwards under my eyes. His haggard breathing mixes with my limp exhales, creating a labored rhythm. A symphony of fear and pain. Somewhere far away, I hear pots and pans crashing together. His knees make a soft thud as they come to the ground on either side of my head.

Tentatively, his fingertips skate down, tracing the lines of my face. "Jesus Christ." He voice is as faint as his touch. I can feel him withdrawing. The warmth is gone. I grunt in discontent. _Come back._ Pooling my strength, I drag my arm across the ground. My palm finds the crease of his knee and folds over it. My body hums, like I've closed a circuit.

Gentle fingers push through my hair.

"Mary!" The cracks in his voice mirror the cracks in me. The crashing of the pots and pans stops.

"John?" The floor creaks with her footsteps. My body involuntarily seizes up at the noise. As I arch upwards, he catches me and guides me into a sitting position. I lean heavily against him, our shoulders making sharp contact.

"Oh my god, Sherlock!"

"Mary, I need you to help me get him inside."

"John, is he okay?"

"Can you help me?"

They seem to be having two separate conversations. They each are speaking calmly, mechanically, but there's an undercurrent of urgency there. The divarication disorients me, and the tension pulls at me, leaving me lopsided. I bow my head against the cacophony as they talk over one another.

"What's going on?"

"Don't strain yourself, though. I don't want to hurt the baby."

"How did he get here?"

"Mary, we have to help him."

There is, I discover, much more to hear in their pauses than in their actual speech. The silence is pulled taut with the strain of their worry. My hand is still at his knee. My fingers twitch, tracing small, invisible circles over the soft fabric there.

"Okay," Mary breathes. "What do you need me to do?"

"I'm going to see if I can get him to his feet. I can bear most of his weight. I just need your help to get him to the couch."

There is no reply, but she must have nodded because John is rocking off of his knees and back into a squatting position. My hand slips away. I feel myself being hauled into the air. I careen, unsupported for a minute, but before I can panic, his hands are there, one pulling my arm around his shoulder, and the other wrapping around my back. Seconds later, Mary's arm is around me, too. Between the two of them, I am propelled forward into the room.

My feet stumble uselessly beneath me as they try and fail to bear my weight. Finally, they give up and just bump over the floor as John and Mary pull me along. It's not a bad sensation, really. I feel like I'm floating. I can't remember the last time I felt this weightless. For weeks now, I've been sluggish, muddling through. My body felt bloated. Dragged down by heavy, cumbersome thoughts.

"God, it's like there's nothing to him."

That's a nice thought. _There is nothing to me_. The burden of _being _is gone. There is nothing to me. Nothing except for his words, coursing through me and filling me up. I smile and curve in the direction from which John's voice came.

Much too soon, I'm being lowered. With a frown, I twist upward and fight it. Already, I can feel gravity taking its toll, dragging it all back down on top of my chest. I want to lift my arms, reach for him, but they feel so heavy all of a sudden. Everything does.

As his hands leave me, the first stab of disorientation hits me. _Where am I? John?_

I must have spoken his name out loud without realizing it because he's here again, running smooth, dry hands over my slick face. "I'm right here," he murmurs, his breath fanning over my cheek. Instantly, my body goes slack with relief.

For some reason, this seems to worry him.

"Mary, I think I'm losing him. Get me some water, would you?"

"Should I call for an ambulance?"

"I don't know yet. I don't think so." He gives my cheek a light pat. "Sherlock, if you can hear me, I need you to open your eyes. _They are open. Aren't they?_ For the first time, I begin to notice the blackness that has been pressing in around me this whole time. I'm drowning in confusion, drifting alone in its murky waters. _John? Where am I? John?_

"Sherlock?" His voice centers me. I orient my focus towards him. "Open your eyes. Sherlock, please. For me."

That hits me right at the center of my chest. I must give a light jolt because he's running soothing hands down my arms. "It's alright. It's alright. I've got you. Just, please. Sherlock."

Slowly, my leaden lids flutter open. It takes far more effort than it should, but I'm rewarded with a view of John's face, breaking out into a relieved smile. It looks a little rusty, like he's forgotten how to do it properly.

"There you are," he whispers.

His thumbs are tracing mesmerizing circles beneath my eyes. I let the reassuring motion lull me into a light, easy stupor. My eyelids are heavy. _So heavy._ I forget why I was holding them open in the first place.

"No, no, no." He sounds so far away. My body's shaking now. He's doing it to me. Rocking me back and forth. "Sherlock." My brain feels like it's being shaken loose. "Keep them open." It's rattling around my skull now. "Stay with me."

_Of course, John. I will always stay with you. Even when you leave me behind._

Mary comes back in in a swell of worry. Her perfume carries the scent of bitter memories. They taste acrid on my tongue. My stomach turns over. The rim of a glass is being pressed against my lower lip.

"Sherlock. I need you to drink."

_No. I don't want to. _I feel sick. _But John needs me to._ I can't hold my head up. It's too heavy. His hand is there, at my jaw, easing it open. Obligingly, I let the tension fall out of my mouth.

"Good," he hums. It takes massive effort, but with John's help, I drink. And he is a genius, really. I don't give him nearly enough credit. Already, I feel the relief as the water pours, like a salve, down my throat. I blink a few times, turning the bleary smudge of flesh into a clear picture of his face.

I trust more and more of my weight in his hands. I feel myself slipping off the couch as my body falls towards his. With a mighty heft, he pushes me back upright, but my hands have found their way to the front of his shirt, and they pull him with me.

The springs of the couch groan as I settle back against it. Moments later, the cushion sinks with his weight beside me. I drop easily toward him, my head finding his shoulder. He allows me languorous minutes there, basking in his warmth, absorbing his strength. _Help me, John_.

Carefully, he starts to shift our positions. He eases me around so that I'm facing him. I curl my knees into my chest between us. My head starts to dip. _Tired. I am so tired._ But his hands are there, on either side of my face, holding me in place.

"Sherlock. When was the last time you ate—or slept, for that matter?"

"I..I dunno," I slur. I can't remember. _It hurts to remember_.

"Sherlock, this is very important. I need you to remember. Now, when was the last time you had something to eat?"

"A day or two, maybe? It wasn't a lot. It hasn't been a lot. Not for a couple of weeks now." My words stutter, fall over themselves. I'm running on fumes. He's keeping his face blank, emotionless. If only I could dam my thoughts—if only I could _think_ clearly—I could see what he was hiding.

"And sleep?"

Narrowing my eyes, I shake my head. "I haven't been—I haven't been sleeping."

"Okay." A heavy sigh escapes his lips. "Okay." His hands press tighter against my face for a second before loosening again. His eyes dig into mine. He's got me pinned there in his gaze. I don't like this. I don't like this at all. "Have you been losing time at all? Do you have blank spots in your memories, times when you can't remember where you've been?"

I swing my head back and forth. I would probably have kept going on and on in the motion, but his grip stops me. There's a flicker of distrust in his eyes, and it sends a surge of pain through my heart. I go to press against it, but I find that my hand is already there. With a shock, I realize that my other hand is at his waist, bunching the fabric at the hem of his shirt.

_When did that happen? Why is my body doing things without my permission?_

"Sherlock, do you know where you are?"

I blink a few times and look around me. Once I'd realized I was with him, it hadn't really mattered where I was. It had never even occurred to me to wonder what existed beyond the planes of his face.

"Your home," I mumble after a bit too long of a pause.

"Yes. And do you know how you got here?"

_No. _Blackness stretches behind me. A void in my memory. _I don't know anything anymore._ He takes my silence as an answer and frowns deeply.

"It seems like you're missing a thing or two, after all."

Bitter fear floods my mouth.

"What's happening to me?"

"Your body's shutting down. It's forcing you into sleep. But you keep fighting it. You have to stop this, Sherlock. You're doing some serious harm."

My mind churns through that slowly. "So," I hesitate. "I _sleepwalked _here?"

Taken aback, he blinks hurriedly.

"I hadn't thought of that, but it's the only thing that makes sense. Though, sleepwalking to that extent…it's unusual. It's lucky you ended up here."

_Oh, John. Luck had nothing to do with it. There is nowhere else I could have possibly ended up. It would seem that I always find you. Even in sleep._

Mary comes back in with a plate in her hand. I hadn't even realized she'd left. Everything feels like it's slipping outside of my control. I can't seem to keep a firm hold on anything. _But it's alright. Because John's got a hold on me._ As if to confirm this, his fingers curl against my skin. _Don't let go, John. Don't let me go._

My hand falls away from my chest. My other one disentangles itself from the front of his shirt. I don't know quite what to do with them now. Another wave of exhaustion hits me, and I start to crumple. John's grip shifts down so that he's holding me by my shoulders.

"I know you're tired, but I need you to eat first. Okay?"

_No. Not okay. Nothing's okay._ But I nod. _John needs me to do this._

With some difficulty, I choke down everything he gives me. Nausea roils in my stomach, but I keep it down. My body is a leaden mass, dragging me under. John is easing me backwards, and I feel the swoop of panic.

"Now you can sleep."

My fingers spasm out, reaching for him.

"No. I can't—I see—I see—"

"What's the matter?"

Anxiety weaves through the folds of his face. My breathing is ragged, raked along the raw expanse of my throat.

"I can't trust what I see. I don't—I don't know what to believe."

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense."

I nod. _Exactly. I'm not making any sense. Nothing is making any sense. All that makes sense is you. Help me, John. Help me._

The question is still there, in his eyes, pleading, insistent. With a hard swallow, I lick my lips, my eyes darting around, finding a spot on the ground and not moving from it.

"I think I'm going crazy," I whisper.

Tremors seize my body. Now that I've made the admission, I can't take it back. I tense, waiting for the madness to come ripping out of me. But there's only the steady tick of silence. Haltingly, I drag my gaze back up to meet John's. There's a hard sheen of defiance in his eyes. Disbelievingly, he shakes his head.

"You're not crazy, Sherlock. You're only crazy if the things you believe in turn out to not exist."

I try to regulate my breathing, slow myself down, find calm. "You—believed—in—me." I don't know where that connection came from or if it even makes sense, but it is suddenly extremely dire that I say this, that he confirms this.

"Yes. And I'm not crazy, am I?"

"Not in the least."

He laughs; a response I wish I caused more often. It's a bit too tense around the edges, but it's a welcome, warm sound that fills my chest.

"I think that's one of the best compliments you've ever given me. Right up there with my dimness illuminating your brilliance or whatever it was that you said."

"Well, perhaps that won't be true for very much longer. It just might be that my brilliance is a finite resource."

"No. Sherlock, listen to me. We've established that I'm not crazy, right?"

With a roll of my eyes, I nod.

"Right. So, we can go ahead and assume that I know what I'm talking about, then."

His eyes narrow as he reads the doubt on my face.

"Do you trust me?"

Languidly, I blink, drawing out the motion. Sleep calls to me, but my mind rebels against it, flings itself away from it. John is a bleary outline.

"Do you trust me," he persists.

"Only you."

Something momentous settles between us, and the air seems to ripple with it. I almost have my finger on what _it_ is when John's hand finds its way to my cheek again and chases away all other thoughts.

"Okay, good." There's a smile in his voice. "So, trust me, you're not crazy."

I nod, a deeper heaviness settling into my bones. He stands up, and I stretch my legs out. A small shiver runs the length of my body, but already, John is draping a blanket over me.

"You're brilliant as you've ever been. Just sleep, and we'll get you sorted." His voice drones on above me, taking on a slower rhythm. "You're fine, Sherlock. You're doing just fine. You've just got to keep it together. Please. For me."

His words, usually so grounding, untether a latent fear within me. _John, I'm going to let you down. John. I'm sorry. I'm coming apart._

Sanity is a delicate thread in my mind, and it's unravelling. I'm coming apart.

* * *

**Chapter title inspiration: City and Colour, "Harder Than Stone"**

**Thanks if anyone's still reading! xxx**


	9. Chapter 9

**Mary, Mary, quite contrary...**

* * *

_"I'm the best thing that could have happened to you. Sorry."_

* * *

9. Not Much Here Outweighs the Pain

"John."

He doesn't acknowledge me. He doesn't move. Clenching and unclenching the hand at his side, he frowns at Sherlock in desperate concentration, as though he can will him into wellness. My feet whisper over the floor until I'm at his shoulder. My hand snakes down between us, and my fingers dance over his, tempting open the tight fist he's made. Soundlessly, we watch the uneasy rise and fall of Sherlock's chest as he sleeps. He hovers right at the edge of consciousness, though. We can both see it, the way he fights it, too terrified to rest completely.

Slowly, I ease him away, pull him into the kitchen. We both need to look away from this, if only for a minute. Not even an hour has gone by, but already, as we stand in the early morning light, it feels as though a full day has passed. His hand is going slack in mine, and I feel him pulling away. The urge to tense up, to seize his hand and not let him go, grips me, but I fight it down. He drifts away from me, his bare feet shuffling across the floor.

"John?"

Eyes slightly glazed, he stands at the kitchen sink, staring out the window above it. Dazedly, he turns to look at me. He runs a hand over his cheek and brings it to stroke his chin. Clearly at a loss, he shakes his head and heaves a miserable sigh. Even though Sherlock is asleep on the couch in the next room, his presence seems to hang heavily in the space between us.

John's eyes search over my face, but I don't have any answers to give. We blink blankly at one another. There's a leak at the faucet. It drips apathetically in the background. The hum of the refrigerator grows louder, turning into an angry buzz. Just as the silence becomes oppressive, John shrugs, making it a somehow reassuring and helpless gesture all at the same time.

"I don't know what to say."

_Clearly_. And for some reason, I laugh. Everything is awful, and the pain and confusion are acute around us, but I laugh. And John is laughing now, too. Neither one of us thinks it's particularly funny, but we're afraid to stop. Then, just as suddenly as it erupted out of us, it dwindles to an abrupt halt.

"I don't know what to say," John repeats. There's a bleakness in his tone that wasn't there before, and it casts a sobering pall over the room.

"Okay. That's okay. We'll just make a list of everything we do and don't know." My voice is calm and soothing. I can do this. We've been here before: John on the brink, and me reeling him back in. That's how this works. It's an ebb and flow. Sherlock pushes him to the edge, and I pull him back. That's how this works. It's symbiotic.

Mechanically, John nods and waits for me to start. I am unused to seeing him this unsure, this indecisive. His eyes flicker to the doorway, following to where his thoughts have strayed. His hand's clenching up again. This agitation isn't normally like him. John's a doctor. He's used to helping people under duress, in much worse states than the one Sherlock's in, but he can't seem to get a grip on himself. When it comes to Sherlock, he can't treat him like he would any other patient. Too many things get in the way. _Sherlock is the exception. Sherlock is always his exception_.

"Alright, so let's start simply," I say, pulling his attention back to me. "We know that he showed up here, at our door."

"Yes, but we don't know why," he adds dully. Coming to himself a little more, he starts pacing agitatedly back and forth. "Everything he does, he does with a purpose. But this…he unconsciously crossed a great deal of distance to come _here_. It doesn't make sense. That took a special kind of drive to get him all the way over here. All while he wasn't even aware he was doing it."

"It was something more powerful than conscious thought that brought him here," I say faintly, waiting for John to realize what I have known for months. But it doesn't come. His eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement, he drops his gaze to the ground, as though the kitchen tiles hold all the answers.

"Greg called me the other day," he declares out of nowhere. "He said he's worried about him, too. Says he gets distracted all the time. Loses concentration. And it's not just his normal habit of ignoring people, either. He checks out.

"And Greg thinks Sherlock's starting to miss things. They've been investigating this string of isolated cases because Sherlock insists that they're connected. But no one sees it. And Sherlock sees things people miss all the time, but Greg says there's nothing there."

I open my mouth to reply, but before I can, John slams a fist into the counter—hard.

"Damn it. _Damn_ it. He can't do this. He can't lose touch. Not now. Not when I've finally…not when he's finally come back."

_Not after I almost took him away again_.

"Nothing's wrong with him. Nothing's wrong with him. He's just exhausted. Overrun. I told him that this would happen. The body can only take so much."

_The mind can only take so much_.

I don't say a word in the face of all of this, but he's arguing with the air all the same. Frantically, he looks to me for affirmation, but I can't give him pity, and I can't give him comfort. Not now. He needs to work through this right now if any of us are going to come out of this all right.

"John, talk me through this. What's going on with him?"

With a deep, steadying breath, he drags out a chair and sits at the kitchen table, studying the lines of his palms. While he pulls his thoughts together, I pour him a cup of coffee and sit down across from him.

"I think he's developed some sort of stress-induced parasomnia disorder. That would explain the sleep-walking and the odd behavior. But I don't know," he sighs, running his hands over his face. "I'm not a psychologist. But I've been through a war, and I've seen what it can do to people. I _lived through_ what it can do to people. Sherlock's been fighting a war of his own for a long time now. He's a finely tuned instrument, and he's more sensitive than he lets on."

_His brain absorbs everything. It's bound to have soaked up some rather toxic things. And maybe, his knees are finally starting to buckle under the pressure._

"John!"

The sound ricochets through the room, followed by a distant thud. Almost as though he was waiting for it, John is out of his chair like a shot and flies into the living room. I come in on his heels in time to see John helping a disoriented Sherlock back onto the couch. Tenderly, John cradles Sherlock's face in his hands, whispering something I can't hear. Tension visibly leaves his body as he lets John lay him back down. John crouches next to his head, and his hands don't leave his face right away. There's intimacy in the touch. Sherlock's head finds its way onto John's shoulder, and I can't tell if John pulled it there or if it dropped there of its own accord.

When sleep finally drags Sherlock back under, John rises stiffly to come back over to me.

"I'm not going in to work today. I need to stay with him."

I nod at him, mentally adding emphasis to the word _need_.

We try to continue the day as normally as possible, but I still feel as though there's a massive crater in the middle of our living room, and I inch around it with averted eyes and a creeping sense of anxiety. I don't know why, but I am worried. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that John and Sherlock seem inexorably drawn to one another, no matter how much they try to keep themselves at an arm's length.

John and I don't talk. We just mutely move around one another, pretending like there's nothing the matter. He types on his computer. I run errands. And Sherlock sleeps.

Around noon, Sherlock shoots bolt upright and stumbles through the flat, his eyes wide and unseeing. John's name is on his lips, and it seems all he's able to say. There's something ghastly in his appearance: a haunted look in his gaunt face, pain in his bloodshot eyes. His hands are clasped to the side of his head, just like they were when we found him outside our door this morning. John is at his side in seconds, rubbing his thumbs over his cheeks, murmuring reassuringly, guiding him back to the couch.

I think about suggesting the guest room, but something tells me that having Sherlock in a bed will feel far too intimate for John. Already, he's being strangely gentle with him and touching him far more than he would under normal circumstances. It's subtle, but I can feel something shifting in the dynamic among us.

After that episode, John brings his laptop over next to Sherlock and sits on the floor at his head. Neither one seems too keen on being apart. And I feel strangely unnecessary, achingly obsolete, watching them.

Every couple of hours, John will rouse Sherlock, making him drink or eat something, and then he will let him drop back to sleep. There are no more major interruptions now that Sherlock knows John is in the room with him, sitting right next to him. Every now and then, he'll start out of sleep, look around, see John, and then close his eyes again, looking at peace.

John and I still don't talk. Silence settles over us, thick as dust. All there is now is just a light, fluttering of breath mixed with heavier sighs. And my own stuttering heartbeat.

We adopt a new pattern. Sherlock breaks a little more with every breath he takes, and John tries to hold him together, straining himself further with every minute that passes. I just keep waiting for the moment when John can't take it anymore. When he'll need me again, so I can feed on his pain. I need it to make me feel necessary, feel relevant to his life. We adopt a new pattern. It's parasitic.

Late afternoon stretches into evening, and evening drags into night. John and I get ready for bed silently. A slow-breaking sadness ripples over me. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him finish up his nightly routine. As he comes out of the bathroom, I rise to pull back the sheets.

Much to my shock, John suddenly collapses against me, his head buried against my chest. After a beat, I embrace him, try to reassure him. My throat closes over, and all I can do is rock us back and forth.

_I'm scared, too,_ I want to tell him. _I'm always scared now_.

His hand drags down my arm. His fingers tangle with mine, and he drags me back out of our room and over to Sherlock. He coaxes a strong sleeping pill into Sherlock—hopefully enough to keep him out through the night—and after a quick stroke of fingers through his hair, John captures my hand again and leads me back to our room.

He falls asleep quickly, but I lose hours to fretful thoughts and a disquiet that I can't quite pin down.

* * *

The coffee cup slams against the nightstand harder than I'd intended. It clatters loudly as it comes to a solid rest on the firm surface. I didn't mean for it to, but my hands are shaking too hard to control the movement. The sound barely breaks through his coma-like sleep. If anything, he only snores louder. I watch as he shifts slightly before settling again—a warm, dependable lump of blankets and sheets.

Fondness for him breaks through some of the anxiety that has been building since yesterday morning's unexpected visitor. Lightly, I press the tips of my fingers against his forehead and try to smooth away the wrinkles there. He's so deep in sleep that he doesn't respond to the soft contact of my hand against his skin. This benign, unaware acceptance of my touch is the easiest contact we've had with each other in months.

Tentatively, I settle on the bed and run my fingers through his downy hair. His early stirrings from sleep should be my warning to leave, but letting my hands linger is a luxury I allow myself. Every night he spends next to me is a gift. Of course, he was essentially unconscious last night, falling into an overwrought pile of exhaustion and worry, but I'll take it. I had grown used to having his warm form beside me, and I had never really learned how to be without it. Lonely. I am so lonely now; even when he's right beside me.

Pale lashes flutter, and then he is looking at me. I hate how afraid I am. I shouldn't feel the need to ask permission to touch my husband, but I feel as though I'm trespassing all the same. My mouth twitches up into a tentative smile, and he returns it with a sad sort of shadow of one. My hand slips away from his face just as his comes to rest on my stomach. He's no longer looking at me. He only has eyes for the large swell of my belly. The thread that holds us together. When he looks up at me again, there are still vestiges of affection in his eyes, and it doesn't dim from them immediately.

And, there, just like that, I have hope again.

"I made you breakfast." My voice is wobbly, and my feet are unsteady as I stand up. His hand falls back onto the mattress, a dead weight. I make a choking sound as I clear my throat. "Coffee's on the nightstand."

With an appreciative groan, he sits up and takes the cup. I linger by the bed as he drains it in a few gulps. Wordlessly, I take the now empty cup from him and start to move away, my fingers dragging lovingly across his arm. My feet hardly make any noise as I head into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he follows me out of the bedroom, almost as soundless as I was. I wonder if that's what we're going to do now: tiptoe around one another.

It takes me a minute, but I realize that he isn't behind me anymore. I glance into the living room and see him there. He hangs above the couch, his hands clasped behind his head. He pushes his weight back and forth, from the heels to the balls of his feet. The oscillation of his movements mirrors the struggle in his mind.

In the entire time I've known him, Sherlock has never made anything easy for John.

If I'm horribly, wrenchingly honest with myself, I don't want him to start. Every time Sherlock hurts him, I hope that it will be enough to outweigh what I did. Because I'm just waiting for the moment that Sherlock does something so horrible that John walks away from him forever.

He sees me and lifts the corner of his mouth into a half-smile.

"I'm not actually that hungry. I think I'll just…" he gestures vaguely in the direction of the bedroom.

"Head to work early? Yeah, that's…I'll see you…"

I wonder if that's the other thing we'll do now: trail off in the middle of sentences, leave things unsaid.

Back in the kitchen, I spoon uneaten eggs into the garbage. Suddenly, I'm not so hungry either. I clutch my stomach and stare out the window, listening to the muffled sounds of John getting ready for work. I hear the familiar creak of the living room floor, but I don't hear the door open. I keep waiting for it, but I still don't hear him leave. I cross the room, looking curiously around the corner.

I linger in the doorway of the living room, unseen by either one of them. I was right; John hasn't left for work yet. He's drawn, like a magnet, to the couch, to the pull of the sleeping form there. He's holding Sherlock's hand in the air, his fingers trained on his wrist. John has been holding it long enough to reassure himself of a pulse, but he doesn't seem able to let go. Only when Sherlock huffs does he remember himself, tucking his hand carefully back into his side. I think he's going to leave now, but John stays there, staring. Finally, he brings a hand to curl around Sherlock's cheek and slides it down the curve of his chin. A few moments more, and he traces the dark circles under Sherlock's eyes.

"John?" I venture slightly into the room, and John snaps up somewhat guiltily.

"Sorry."

_For what?_

"I'm headed out. I'll see you when I get home."

He's staring at Sherlock again.

"I love you."

"Hm?" He's still not looking at me.

"John?" He drags his gaze to meet mine. "I love you."

Nodding, he absently turns to look at Sherlock again. "Yeah…love you." Shaking his head, he looks me earnestly in the eyes. "I love you, too. See you later."

Almost as an afterthought, he crosses the room and gives me a light kiss. With a lingering look at Sherlock, he leaves.

* * *

I get about an hour to myself before Sherlock finally wakes up, groggy and disoriented. After monumental effort, he manages to lug his body off of the couch and into the kitchen. Blearily, he slides into a chair and runs his hands over his face. Wordlessly, I slide a glass of water in front of him and hand him some pills. Wincing against the sunlight streaming in through the windows, he swallows them down and then stares at the grain of the wooden table.

"How are you feeling?"

He shrugs. With a deep, steadying breath, he splays his hands on top of the table, studying the way his pale fingers curl against the deep mahogany.

"Are you asking in general or in relation to how I was feeling yesterday?"

"Both. Whatever you like."

"Well, which is it?" Peevishly, he lets his fingernails bite into the wood.

"All right," I reply in placating tones. "How are you feeling, generally?"

His posture as rigid as the stiff chair he occupies, he raises his head to study me. His gaze rakes over everything in my expression, but he won't meet my eyes.

"Do you know what they say in Spanish?" I shake my head, the conversation having taken an unexpected turn. It's a strange thing to ask, like he's jumping around from one unrelated subject to the next. "_Tengo dolor_:'I have pain.' I _have _it. Like it's something I carry around with me, tucked under my arm, nestled in my ribs. I have it."

I'm not especially sure what to say to that, so I wait him out.

"But that's all right. Prolonged exposure to anything will eventually render you invulnerable to it."

"Or it will kill you."

He smiles then, a scary blank expression ripping across his face.

"It seems I've developed an immunity to murderers, too, though."

"Sherlock…" He blinks benevolently in my direction, all calmness and acceptance. I'm at once grateful for the lack of blame and long for it. "Everyone needs a support system," I say, changing the subject. "That's us, Sherlock. We're you're safety net."

"Safety net?"

"Yes, people who love you. John loves you. And so do I. Let us help you."

He snorts into his hands.

"_People who love me? _I don't need any help."

"Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"You act like people don't matter to you, only to throw away everything for said people."

"The beneficiaries of such acts would do well not to question them," he replies archly, dual meaning heavily implied. He's staring at a point somewhere above my head. My breath chokes off. His gaze shifts back and forth in the air above me.

"I looked, you know." His fingers drum evenly over the table, the timing between each movement calculated so that they are precisely the same. "John didn't look, but I did. You had to have known that would happen. You know me so well." He says it matter-of-factly, without judgment or blame. "But don't worry; I didn't tell him. I won't tell him."

My heart hammers so loudly, I swear he must be able to hear it. John burned it, but part of me knew that I would never truly be safe.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, especially because you don't."

"Do you hate me?"

"I could easily ask you the same thing. It wasn't mine to know, but I took it, and I read it all."

"I don't hate you, Sherlock. I understand why you did it."

He peers at me owlishly, looking me directly in the eyes for the first time in months.

"You do, don't you? You understand."

This sentence seems to have more meaning for him than me because he turns it over in his mouth a few times, letting the significance resonate.

"Doubt is a terrible thing," he says quietly, almost to himself. With a grimace, he drops his eyes to the table. Ashamed. He is ashamed. The expression is all too familiar to me. I wear it every day. _You were very slow, Sherlock_.

"You beat me, Mary," he says, as though he's reading my thoughts. "You beat me soundly." With a wry smile, he brings a hand to massage his forehead. "Doubt...Trust…who can you trust? Who do you trust, Mary?"

I don't answer him. This feels dangerous all of a sudden.

"Do you trust me?"

I nod.

"Well, that makes one of us."

"Sherlock—" I am horrified, but I don't know how to express the full depth of it. "I am so sorry."

"I've already told you that there are no apologies needed."

_Why, even alone, do we let stand the fiction that I didn't shoot to kill? _

"You know that's not true. You've see the file. You know what I'm capable of."

"But do I really?"

And still, he doesn't hurl accusations. I want him to. I need him to punish me for it. To give me a chance to explain, so that he can absolve me. _Understand, _I want to say. _Understand that desperate_ _people react in one of two ways. They either let the panic consume them, or they claw their way out, fight with everything they have. _ I lived an ugly life before John, and I wasn't going to let anyone take him away from me. Not even Sherlock.

_Some loves weigh heavier than others._

Sherlock isn't watching me anymore. Instead, he's lining the tips of his fingers up and meshing them together. There's a distant, hollow look in his eyes.

"Doubt is a terrible thing."

* * *

**Chapter title inspiration: Go Radio, "What If You Don't"**

**Again, I'm super grateful for the feedback and support, especially if you're still reading! xxx**


	10. Chapter 10

**Let's play a game. Let's play make-believe.**

* * *

_"I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself."_

* * *

10. My Thoughts, They Let Me Down

"You shouldn't use the nice stationary for _them_. They got you and John an undesirable gift."

"Sherlock, there is no 'nice' stationary. All of the cards I bought are equal amounts of lovely. I have excellent taste."

I give an amused grunt with only the corner of my mouth turning up. She gives me a playful nudge, and I have to repress the involuntary reaction to flinch away. Pretending not to notice, she turns her attention back to her task.

"Besides," she says lightly, "it's the thought that counts."

"Well in that case, you shouldn't be thanking them at all."

"Oh, Sherlock," she sighs, but I see her trade out the embossed cardstock paper for a thin card of a flimsier nature. I lace my fingers together and watch her hand form sloping lines that come together into neat, precise words. At this point, I can recite the message she's writing from memory. It's a formula she follows, only changing out names and the occasional word.

Everything she does is like this: measured, exacting, and calculated.

She glances up and me, and for a second, something disquiet passes over her face. Quickly, it brightens, recovering into a teasing smile.

"Hey! No neglecting your duties!" She slides an envelope towards me and rattles off the address without consulting a list or directory.

Obediently, I begin copying down what she said. The pen shakes in my grasp, and I drop it to the table. With a rueful wince, I grip my hand tightly and then release it, flexing my fingers in the air. Ignoring the concerned look Mary gives me, I seize the pen back into my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her open her mouth, but she doesn't ask. After a moment, she closes it again. We study our hands, ignoring all of the things that are obviously wrong. _We're just pretending. That's good. Let's just pretend, Mary. We're good at that._

Unsteadily, I try again to write out the address. The words start to dance in front of my eyes, the lines wiggling, teasing me. The envelope begins to blur around the edges, a fuzzy, white halo surrounding it on the dark wood. Squinting at it, I try to bring everything back into focus. But my brain doesn't want to work with me. It explodes the letters across the paper, scattering them into no discernable order.

My gaze is sliding out of my control. Thoughts come tangentially. They barely graze my consciousness, teasing me with things I cannot grasp entirely. I'm surrounded in an esoteric haze, a frustratingly opaque miasma of confusion and befuddlement.

"Sherlock?"

The hand clenched around my forearm snaps me back to the present. After blinking several times, Mary becomes recognizable again, her features finally distinguishable. She's stroking my arm in a continuous, pleading motion.

"Where did you go?"

I shake my head. _I don't know anymore. I never feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be._

"You left me for a good five minutes. Don't do that anymore."

_I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to stay._

"Hey. You're back now, right?"

_No. I'm always lost now. Always lost inside my head._

My phone bleats, causing me to start. In a single, fluid motion, I slide it off the table and bring it up to my ear. Mary's still frowning at me over the top of the table, and the sides of my eyes crinkle in annoyance.

"John," I say without preamble.

"Sherlock. Hey. I, um, meant to text you, but I guess my finger slipped, and I must have accidentally called you instead."

"Hm."

We both pause to ignore the flaws in that story. I'm tempted to point them out to him, but I decide it would be uncharitable and let it slide.

"Well since you've got me, you can just tell me."

"What?"

"Your text, John. What were you going to text?"

I afford him another long pause so that he can recover.

"Oh. Right. I just was, er, wondering if Mary was with you."

"She is. And her phone is here, too."

"Right. Good. Well...what're you two doing?"

"Writing thank you notes. I can't believe how long it's taken you to get around to them. It's a little rude, frankly."

"Well, etiquette dictates that we have a year to do that. Besides, we've been a little busy since the wedding."

"Hm."

_Some of us have been more busy than others._

An awkward cough bursts over the line.

"Okay. Good," he says irrelevantly. "How—how are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Okay." He sounds uncertain. "Good."

_Is it? _I want to snap at him, a desire I barely hold in check. _Stop it. Stop it, John. There's nothing wrong with me. You said so yourself. What's the matter? Don't you believe me?_

"Okay," he repeats quietly. There's nothing left to say, so I hang up. I feel oddly disconnected as I stare at the blank screen. It's quivering before me, but I don't know if it's my hands or my eyes playing tricks on me. Don't know if it's my body or my mind failing me.

I slam it on the table, a sound Mary chooses to ignore. There's a pressure on my chest, and I realize that my other hand is pressed flat against it. It, too, makes a slamming noise as it falls away.

Her cards written, Mary begins addressing the envelopes herself, handing them to me so I can seal them and put the stamps on. Once the finished products have been assembled into a haphazard pile, she straightens them out, saying nothing about the stamps that ended up in the middle of the envelope or halfway off the edge. Wordlessly, she tucks them away. She'll fix them later.

For now, we'll just pretend.

"I think, I'll be going now," I say, starting to push away from the table.

"Have some water first," Mary challenges, pushing a glass toward me.

With a harrumph, I plop back down and seize the cup, draining it quickly. Mary is watching me far too intently. Just as my suspicions begin to gain traction, black starts closing in at the edges of my vision. I stagger to the couch, Mary following in my wake. Mournfully, she watches as I fade back to sleep, too defeated to feel betrayed.

**…**

The cracks are climbing. They claw their way up the walls, raking through the plaster, splitting around the window frame. I find myself studying an opening that spans most of the length of the wall. It runs deeper, wider, than the others. It's a black scar, a gaping wound, before me. From that crack grow tiny little splinters that feed each other and spread infinitely. A maze of interlocking lines. A convoluted network of ruptures and breaks. A spider's web.

"Sherlock."

The walls shudder with the exhale of his whisper. I turn to him, bones rattling, joints creaking. There's a pitying, contemplative twerk to his mouth, cushioned with his usual tinges of irony and twisted amusement. Hands snaking into his pockets, he advances toward me, each step deliberate, his arches rolling over the ruined wood of the floor.

"Let's play a game," he hisses, head tilting to the side.

"Let's play…_murder_." His voice drops into a low, dangerous taunt. Our sleeves brush as he circles around me. I stiffen under his scrutiny. His stare feels intrusive, penetrating, and unwelcome.

"Let's say you were going to murder somebody." A cruel smile stretches across his face, lip curling in enjoyment. "How would you do it," he whispers in my ear. "Who would you choose?"

I close my eyes against the questions. He's spinning his trap, tangling us together.

"What do you think, Mary?"

My eyes flutter open, and she's here in the room with us, white fabric cascading around her. I can't see her face through the gauzy drape of the veil. She stands, still as a statue, a white, inscrutable pillar. She doesn't answer him, either.

"Now, if it were me," he intones thoughtfully, "I would be very…particular." He lurks behind me and walks his fingertips over my shoulder. "Usually, I don't like to get my hands dirty. So, if I were to make an exception, it would have to be someone _special_." His hand slides down the front of my shirt, restricting my movement, holding me hostage.

"I would want it to mean something. He would have to be brilliant, dangerous, reckless. Just like me." My eyes flick over to Mary. Nothing about her has moved, save for the slight stirring of the veil at her fingertips. His fingers tighten over the front of my jacket, the tips of them biting into the stiff fabric.

"I would tempt him close, win his trust. He would never suspect; he would never know. Not until the knife was…Already. In. His. Back."

I almost lose myself to the stab of piercing, blinding pain right through the center of my spine. The agony of it feels like it's cleaving me in two. Fractures spiral through my ribs, chasing their way up my bones.

The cracks are climbing.

**…**

A huge, gasping breath brings me back into the present. Much too quickly, I sit up, and spots of light pop in front of my eyes. My heart is fluttering so fast, I feel as though my head is going to lift off from my body. Something heavy falls into my lap. With mounting horror, I realize that it's my arm. I can't feel it. _Why can't I feel it? John?_

Thoughts come too slowly. Mindless terror seizes me. It's dead. My arm is dead. _Oh, god, it's starting. My body's dying. I'm dying, John. I'm dying._ The arm that is still functioning flies to my head, kneading at my forehead, trying to prod thoughts back into motion with increased blood circulation. _Oh. Of course. Blood circulation. _My arm's not dead. It's asleep. I must have been lying on top of it.

Gingerly, I start to massage it. It hangs limply in the grasp of my other hand. A phantom limb. A whisper of something that used to be there. A sensation only accessible through memory. But it's coming back. A not unpleasant buzzing sensation tingles up and down my arm.

As my heart returns to a normal rhythm, I sense his presence. With forced calm, I turn to face him. I know he saw everything. _Help me, John._

There're dark circles under his eyes. His back is stiff. He's been sitting with me for a long time. I want to leave. I can't stay here anymore. Not under his worried, pitying gaze. _Don't say anything, John. Let's just pretend. Nothing's real anymore, anyway._

"John."

He's already at my side, hand extended, but not making contact.

"I want to leave."

"Not yet, Sherlock. Not yet."

"I want to leave."

"No."

_No. You're right, John. I want to stay._

"No. I want to leave."

"Sherlock,"

"Please, John. Please. I want to stay."

"Okay. Good."

_No._

"No. I want to leave."

_I can't think. I can't think._ The drugs are still in my system, pulling me back under.

"I want to stay, John, but I can't."

"Yes, of course you can."

"Just let me go, John."

"I can't."

**…**

My mangled body is lying on the bed. Blood dribbles pathetically out from my mouth. John is holding my hand, smoothing back my hair. The fluorescent lights drown everything in a harsh, indifferent glare. There is no comfort here. Just his hand, tightly clasped in mine.

His heart thrums loudly, defiantly seeming to grow stronger as mine fades away. A slow, sustained, tinny beep is all I have to show for my life. God, it's an awful sound. _Beep_—make it stop. _Beep_—no don't stop. _Beep_—if it stops, I'm dead. _Beep_—I have to stay. _Beep_—I can't leave. _Beep_—I can't leave him alone. But I can._ I'm not the one he needs._ The machine is buzzing. _Is that normal? _Seething white noise. Angry, humming in my ears. He is so close to me, but I can't feel his heat. The longer I look, the further and further away he seems.

The beeping seems to start to run together. _No, it actually is_. A solid, steady bleat. _No._ A final shriek. Is this the sound of death? It's supposed be peaceful. It's not supposed to be like this. It won't end. Why won't it end? It's over, but it doesn't stop. I can't leave. Not like this. High-pitched wailing. It goes on and on, vibrating through my bones, spiraling down my gullet.

_Stop blinking, John. Stop blinking and fix this._

_Don't let go, John. Don't let me go._

**…**

* * *

**This one's short, and I'm sorry for that, but Sherlock's thoughts are getting to a choppier, more abbreviated state, and that's just sort of how this chapter unfolded.**

**Chapter title inspiration: Greg Laswell, "And Then You"**

**xxx**


	11. Chapter 11

**[Warning: Extreme Anxiety; Panic Attack]**

**Losing to the delusions.**

* * *

_"I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes..."_

* * *

11. My Eyes See Things They Shouldn't See

When I finally wake again, I don't open my eyes immediately. Instead, I study the backs of my eyelids. The translucent flaps of skin are the only thin barriers holding back the outside world. Their tiny expanse is blown infinite in my limited range of vision. Light filters through, an orange glow, a sunset blend of hazy colors. My veins fork their way down: insidious, purple branches behind closed eyes. They divide the ochre hues into fractured panes, a confused and ugly stained glass window. A pink and red cloisonné of flesh and blood.

Shades of the drug's effects still hang about me, and they brush me with tempting, soporific wisps. For a time, I let them wash over me as I hover in the liminality between sleep and wakefulness. It's a tepid water that surrounds me. My mind floats easily over the gentle, rocking waves, but I'm careful not to fall back into the riptide of dreams. A gradually growing terror is lurking in the depths, but I keep it blanketed, smothered, for now.

Sharp stabs begin to break through the insulation of my suppression and denial. All of the pain feels like it's in the wrong places. Tiny pinpricks rush over my skin. A needlepoint of dysesthesia.

Mary's soft whisper floats through the air.

"Should we call someone? Mycroft, maybe?"

"No," John replies faster than I can think it. "He might take him—" he chokes off for a minute. My mind starts to clear, and I try to focus on why the swallowed words seem important. All of my pain surges to the center of my chest and merges together into a throbbing mass. John coughs. "I mean, he won't know what to do."

"Do _we_ know what to do at this point?"

"No, but we should probably stop drugging him." There's a wry twist to his words, but it doesn't entirely mask the concern. "I checked his vitals," he continues. "He's running a low-grade fever, his resting heartbeat's a bit faster than normal, and his blood pressure's much higher than it should be."

"What could cause that? Stress?"

"Yeah." I don't have to open my eyes to know he's running a frustrated hand over his face. He sighs. "It's like he's having some kind of sustained nervous breakdown."

"He's kept so much locked up in that head of his for so long, and it's all starting to collapse inside of him."

"That's exactly it. It's all in his head. It's got to be. He built it all up. He's decided that he's going mad, so that's what he's set out to do. It's like he's trying to prove himself right about his own insanity. He can just _never _be wrong." There's grisly amusement in his voice and the smallest pinch of annoyance.

_"You risk your sanity to prove you're clever." _Moriarty's voice rips through my consciousness.

At the sound of his plangent tones, my eyes fly open. Frantically, my eyes race through the room, looking for him. My nerves uncoil when I realize that he isn't here. He's only in my head. Just like all the other monsters.

John's sitting in a nearby chair, his hands clasped in front of him and his head dropped between his shoulders. Mary hovers at his side, her fingers curling under her chin as she stares down at him. Neither of them notices that I'm awake. Quickly, I twitch my eyes shut. John's speaking again, and all the nerves in my body feel like they're straining towards him.

"The thing is, that was his refuge, and now, it's the thing he's trying to escape. He's always relied on his mind, but he can't do that now. I'm worried. He lives in there, Mary. He lives in his head."

_And we know what happens when something becomes inhabitable, don't we? We abandon it; we leave it. We go out of it._

"He's brilliant Mary. He's _brilliant_. There's nothing wrong with him. He's fine." She's not fighting him, but he's arguing, just the same. "But sometimes…rational as he is, that brilliant mind of his just doesn't see sense."

_Well, John, it would seem that this brilliant mind of mine has turned itself inside out. And now, it's collapsing in on itself, dragging everything along with it. A black hole. That's what my mind's become. It sucks me in. Devours me. No escape. Ingenuity consumed by insanity. The Holmes legacy._

_"Oh, don't wallow, Sherlock. It's so boring."_

I recoil away from his words, and I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to edge him out. I don't want him here; don't want _his _voice in my head. My body rocks with a spasm, and I realize that I'm shaking.

I know John sees me. I hear his footsteps carrying him over to me, hurried, but not frantic. I open my eyes to study him. There's anxiety in his face, but not alarm. He's seen this before. I've done this before. _So it's not just my mind that's been spinning out of control as I sleep._

He freezes when he realizes I'm awake. His arm hangs between us, frozen in motion. His fingers curl in slowly, hesitantly, one by one. Then, with an abrupt movement, he snatches his hand back to his chest. Mary drifts up behind him, watching us both warily.

Sluggishly, I push into a sitting position and take in the permanent creases in my clothes. I'm feeling distinctly crumpled, and it's a largely unsavory sensation. They're watching me too intently, and my shoulders hunch protectively. The three of us exchange uncomfortable looks. Paradoxically, all of the space in the room feels suffocating.

"John." We trade blinks. "John," I repeat. His name's become a bit of a talisman for me. _Say it enough times, and I might find control._ "Hand me my phone."

A sigh that sounds suspiciously like one of relief escapes his lips. Familiar habits. Familiar patterns. They're a comfort for him, but they're also a danger. They too easily reveal anomalies.

Without comment, he grabs my phone from a nearby table and hands it over to me. As soon as it's in my grasp, he's almost too quick to step away. A bit too eager. I suddenly become aware of a pocket of space around me. An atmosphere he's unwilling to breach. _That's right, John. Stay away, John. I might suck you in. Into the gravitational pull of my madness._

_"Because everything revolves around you."_

He's taunting me. He won't go away. _Why won't he go away? John?_

I stab at the phone screen in frustration, trying to ignore all the people around me—real and imagined. Hands on his hips, John drops his head to study the carpet.

"I went to Baker Street and got some fresh clothes for you," he says, addressing his shoes. "They're in the bathroom. You can wash up…shower…if you want. You might feel better if you do."

"Implying that there's room for improvement."

"No. At this point, I'm flat out saying it."

"Your capacity for deduction is absolutely staggering," I say stiffly, throwing my phone aside and standing up. The world seems to tilt on its axis. The floor see-saws up, and I feel as though I'm sliding away. I take meandering, unsteady steps forward, shouldering past him.

I'm not entirely sure where I'm going.

"One to ten, Sherlock," John says sharply. His voice is dangerous, combative. I look over my shoulder at him. His face is swimming before my eyes, and I try to will it to stay still. There's a weighty, almost challenging look on his face.

"What?"

"On a scale of one to ten, where would you place yourself?" I open my mouth. "No. No. Shut up. Don't answer right away. Consider all the facts." His voice drops into an imitation of mine. Eyes narrowed, he crosses his arms and puckers his lips stubbornly. "Where do you rank?"

We stare hard into one another's eyes. After lengthy consideration, I give an annoyed sniff.

"I think, I'll take that shower now."

With that, I lurch towards the bathroom. Mary reaches out and gives my arm a light brush as I pass. I'd forgotten she was here.

"Sherlock."

Something about the way he says it—all hard edges and suspect intent—makes me bristle. I don't turn around to look at him. But as sure as my hand's pressed to the front of my chest, I know his is reaching out into the space between us. I force myself to keep walking.

* * *

The spray of the shower is scalding. I reach for the hot water knob only to find it already turned all the way off. But still, the water burns. It doesn't make sense. None of my pain is coming through properly. But I know that I hurt.

I try to breathe in, but it feels like knives are being shoved through my lungs. Pressure is climbing up my throat. There's a heavy weight on me, crushing my windpipe. With every inhale, my capacity to breathe seems to compress. Panic wraps crushing fingers around me.

I can't catch my breath; I can't pull in enough air. It's a horrifying, suffocating feeling. My limbs feel heavy and far away. Everything's distant and inaccessible. And I'm floating—floating away. I stumble out of shower and fall hard into the sink. My hysterics implode inside of me, and I can't breathe. _I can't breathe_. The framework of my bones compress inward, flattening me out, collapsing me down.

My knuckles whiten as I grip the edges of the sink. My vision is tunneling. I'm trying so hard to stay, but there's nothing to anchor me here. Tight as my grasp is, I can't feel the cold porcelain in front of me. I can't feel anything. Just a terrifying numbness and an abysmal emptiness.

I wrench my eyes upward. In my rapidly dimming vision, I see that the mirror in front of me is shattered. No. _No. _I stare in horror at my broken reflection. Shards of it have fallen out; parts of me are missing. The pieces of my face are misaligned, warped by the cracks. I squeeze my eyes shut.

_"Cracking up Sherlock?" _Moriarty whispers in my ear.

_It's not real. He's not real. Nothing is real._ I can't breathe.

Somehow, I end up on the floor. A cement weight is crushing down on me. I'm breaking apart. A fractured body to match a fractured psyche. I can't breathe. Consciousness is ripped away from me, and I descend into a scary, blank void. A slipstream of panic and loss.

I can't breathe.

I can't…

The first thing I register when I come back to myself is the hiss of the shower in the background. Soreness filters through my bones as I take in the hard, cold tile beneath me. My heart throbs, beating contusions against my chest. I take a breath, and it comes in so sharply, so suddenly, that it feels as though I've punctured a lung.

I struggle into a standing position and move to turn off the shower. I avoid looking in the mirror. Ignoring the shake in my hands, I grab a towel and dry off. My bones feel brittle and hollow, like all of the marrow has been sucked out of them. _Is there anything left to me anymore?_ Unexpectedly, I laugh. _Not to worry. Just another fascinating development in my black hole complex. _I rub the towel harder against my skin. I'm rubbing myself raw.

After I've shoved myself into my clothes, I dare a look in the mirror. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until it comes gushing out of me in relief. It's still in one piece. It's still whole. The relief is short-lived once I realize that I'm celebrating the fact that I'm seeing things.

_Delete._

_I'm fine_. I push open the bathroom door and step into the hallway. _Everything's fine_. John's standing there, waiting for me. _Completely fine_. The vein is bulging in his forehead again, and he rather looks like he wants to punch me. _Apparently not fine._

"What the hell, Sherlock?" he hisses. "Did you text Lestrade and tell him that you were being drugged and held hostage here?"

"Of course I did. How else would you describe this situation?"

"Helping you!" he bellows, his face assuming a rather unflattering shade of puce.

"The course of your logic fascinates me."

"Sherlock—" There's a warning in his tone.

"—Oh for god's sake, John. I doubt he's going to arrest you."

"No. Lucky for you, he called first instead of just storming the door with half of Scotland Yard in tow. It would seem he's learned his lesson about jumping into action for you."

"So, he's not coming, then?"

"No. He's coming over. Said he has some stuff he needs to discuss with us."

"Oh good. So he's finally seen reason about this case we've been working on. He's been so obstinately slow on this one. Refuses to see the connections. Nice to have him coming around, though it's a bit annoying how long it took him."

"I don't think that's what's going on," John says faintly, but I don't listen to him.

"When will he be here?"

"Any minute, I imagine," he responds wearily.

We continue to linger in the hall. John's staring at me in the most peculiar fashion. I wish he'd just tell me whatever painstaking thing it is that he's struggling with. Honestly, it's exhausting to watch. There's tightness in his eyes, and his fingers trace his lips, considering. His arm is suspended between us again, reaching for me, but never grabbing hold.

A knock at the door breaks through the tense silence, and it feels as though the sound passes through me. Shaking his head, John pivots away from me to answer it. I wander back into the living room and sit on a chair next the couch Mary's occupying. She gives me a sad smile that I acknowledge out of the corner of my eye.

Minutes later, John and Lestrade walk in.

John offers him a seat, but he refuses, choosing instead to pace the room with his jacket pushed back and his hands on his hips. Silently, John watches him as he settles on the couch next to Mary.

"Lovely home you've got here," he says loudly, awkwardly.

Mary accepts the compliment and repeats the offer for him to have a seat and make himself comfortable. Again, he refuses. His gaze lands on me for the first time. Discomfort passes over his face, and he rubs the back of his neck nervously. I line up the tips of my fingers and stare over them, meeting his stare evenly.

I open my mouth to speak, but before I can even get a word out, John blurts out the first thing that seems to come to mind.

"So, how are things?"

"Hm?" Lestrade whips around. "Oh. Um. Good. Yeah, good. Of course, Anderson is making trouble again. Been poking around the investigation about Sherlock's shooting. Won't leave it alone. He's only making things worse for himself. They'll never let him back on the force at this rate. Claims he doesn't care. Says the system's corrupt. He's been working on conspiracy theories. Insists it was all a cover-up."

He clamps his mouth shut, like he's said too much. He shoots an uncertain look in Mary's direction. I perk up at that. _Interesting._ Slow as he is, Lestrade has never been too terribly inept. I wonder how much of the truth he's managed to figure out.

"The case is closed and sealed. Your brother took care of it," he continues, nodding at me. "Which is probably why Anderson thinks the system is corrupt." He winces again, like he's said something wrong. I wait for the inevitable turnaround. "Of course, you know, the system's in place to protect people," he says, backtracking. "Sometimes people make mistakes, and we need to protect them…" He trails off and darts another look at Mary.

I turn to stare at her, too. _But it wasn't a mistake, was it Mary? You knew you were going to have to kill me all along, didn't you? From the moment you met me, you knew._

_"You should have just stayed dead, Sherlock," _Moriarty lilts. Out of the side of my vision, I can almost see his shadow, lurking in the corner. _"It's tricky business, rejoining the living. Just makes people want to send you back. They realize how much they don't need you. As long as you were dead, she was safe. You weren't a concern. You weren't a threat. You were a non-entity. But you were very much alive. And you could **see**."_

I glance at Mary. Yes. I could see who she was from the start. _But sometimes what you see is not always what is._

_"Oh, Sherlock. But it **was** there. It was right in front of you. You just refused to see. You covered her tracks, and you let John believe the lie."_

_Maybe John wasn't the only one who needed to believe it. _

_"Love is such a vicious motivator," _he jeers. _"It talks you into things when you really should know better."_

_Shut up. _"Shut up!"

They all twist to look at me. I blanch. The words were wrested from my lips before I even realized what was happening. I need them to stop looking at me like that. _Stop it. Stop it, John. I'm fine. Don't you trust me?_

I shoot to my feet and start pacing around the room. No one says anything.

"There's been another murder," I say, pointing in the direction of my phone. "I saw the report."

"Yeah," Greg responds, looking confused. "We've already assessed the crime scene. It was just a random mugging."

"None of this is _random_. They're all connected: the suicide, the overdose, the car crash, the double homicide, and now, the mugging. They're all connected. Don't you see the pattern?"

"No. What is it?"

"I don't know. But it's there. Something's not right about it. Can't you see it? Something's off."

John and Lestrade exchange pointed looks. _Stop it. Stop it, John. _Discomfited, Lestrade turns back to face me, scratching his head.

"Sherlock, John and I have been talking, and we think it's best if you take a break. Just until this whole Moriarty business is sorted. We think you're just taking on too much right now, and—"

"—Scale of one to ten," I say urgently, not looking at Lestrade.

"Wha—?"

"John. On a scale of one to ten, where do I rank? Where would you put me?"

He shakes his head sadly at me, but he won't answer.

_Oh. Oh. John, you don't believe me. You don't believe in me. But I'm brilliant, John. I'm supposed to be brilliant._

I back towards the door. I have to leave.

_"Looks like you're all alone, Sherlock. But don't worry, you still have me." _Moriarty's whisper takes root deep inside my mind. He's taking me over. _"Admit it, Sherlock. You have missed this. Just you and me…_

_"You need me. We complete each other. Two halves of the same crazy whole."_

I'm halfway out the door now. And John lets me go.

* * *

I'm back at Baker Street, but I don't remember how I got here. My phone's ringing. It's been ringing for hours. Maybe even for days.

I don't answer.

Everything's slipping away. Disappearing right out from under me.

* * *

**Chapter title inspiration: Go Radio, "That California Song"**

**xxx**


	12. Chapter 12

**[Warning: Mental Breakdown]**

**And now, the moment they've all been waiting for...**

* * *

_"Just stop it. Stop this..."_

* * *

12. Tell Me How to Reach You

"You should have told me sooner."

I grip the phone a little more tightly.

"I'm aware of that, Mycroft, but Sherlock is usually less cooperative when you're involved. And I thought we could handle it on our own."

"I do wonder why he sets such stock in your opinions. From what I can tell, you're sorely lacking in sensible reasoning."

I squeeze my lips together and roll my tongue along the top of my mouth. I know getting angry with him won't be helpful, but I can't completely smother my resentment. I want to ask him where he's been this whole time. _You saw the signs, too, Mycroft. Probably better than I did. Where the hell were you when your brother was falling apart?_

"I assume you called for some reason other than to scold me?"

"Yes. I know where he is."

I pull the phone away from my face and heave a huge sigh. This past week has been near impossible. It's been eight days without a word from him. Eight days without proper sleep. He was nowhere. We looked in all of his hiding spots, all of his bolt holes. No sign of him. I was starting to half-expect to find a body. I bring the phone back up to my ear.

"Where is he?"

"The cemetery."

"I'm headed there now."

"John."

I pause.

"He needs you, John. Help him."

* * *

I find him at his grave. It still turns me cold to look at it. The air around him seems to quiver with his agitated energy. Feet rooted to the ground, he's as immovable as the horrible, black headstone in front of him.

He's chain-smoking and standing stock still. In silence, I watch him light a cigarette, suck it dry, throw it out, light another. The whole of his movements are spastic, jerky, jittery; like they're running on a creaking, mechanical circuit.

God, I wish he'd stop.

"Why do people come visit these places?" he says, making me jump. He sounds angry, annoyed, even. Somewhat wildly, he gestures toward his grave. "It's a pile of dirt and a slab of granite. What's here for them? Why would they come here?"

"I used to come here to talk to you." I try to keep the edge out of my voice. I'm not entirely sure why, but I'm mad at him. I'm furious, actually. Because I've never been scared around Sherlock the way I am now. And I've never doubted him before, either. And I'm so angry with him for doing this to me now.

"I wasn't here, though. Even if I was, I wouldn't have been."

He sounds so hollow, so distant. But he's staring straight ahead of him, like something important hinges on me understanding this. And I feel ashamed for being so angry. Because he sounds so lost, so broken.

I sigh. "Sherlock, this was all I had left of you. I know it's irrational. It's sentiment."

"But I was gone, John. Dead is dead."

_I know, Sherlock. I had to bury you. _There's a gleam in his eye that I don't quite trust. He lights another cigarette and takes a long drag like it's his lifeblood.

"Strange thing, death," he continues, his voice is quiet, strained. "Something that used to be there isn't anymore. It's a complete loss of faculties. It's a lot like insanity in that regard."

The cigarette dangles, forgotten, in his fingers. The ashes burn dangerously close.

Shaking his head, he stares into my eyes intently.

"But I didn't give in to it. No. He didn't win. No." His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "No," he repeats, looking manic. "I didn't succumb to it. I won't fall victim to death. I won't give in to madness."

His eyes slide out of focus. It's like he's not talking to me anymore. He stumbles away from me.

"Look, John." He points a smoldering cigarette at the black marble. "Look at the cracks." The stone is unblemished. I see nothing. But Sherlock is staring at it with frenzied eyes. His pale, shaking fingers run insistently over the white engraving of his name as though he's trying to smooth it over. He doesn't even notice that the ashes are dropping onto his exposed skin. Roiling unease grips me. I want to reach out to him, but I don't want to spook him.

"It's splitting apart," he mumbles as though coming to some realization, making some connection. "Sherlock Holmes is breaking apart." He laughs, a terrible, hysterical sound, punctuated by sniffs and huffs.

He blinks several times. "He'd like that, wouldn't he," Sherlock hisses, all traces of laughter gone.

"Who?"

He shakes his head, his wide, bright eyes glinting. Viciously, he puts out the cigarette, grinding it against the top of the tombstone.

"Look at the cracks, John." He lifts a half-hearted finger. He sounds so young, so desperate.

"Sherlock. There's nothing there. Look. There's nothing there."

Obediently he squints at the stone, bending over to study it. "Amazing," he murmurs, pressing his hand flat against it. His thumb rubs back and forth over it, almost reverently. He looks back up at me, eyes sparking with frustration and something else that I can't quite place. "They're gone. All gone. But I could have sworn…I saw them. I saw them."

He scrubs his face in vexation. His fingernails leave red claw marks down his face.

"I see so many things, John. So many things. I can't trust what I see."

I reach out to him, but he flinches away.

"Do you know how the human eye works, John? It sees everything upside-down. It's the _brain_ that flips it around. Isn't that extraordinary, John? Everything we _see_, our brains reinterpret. Our minds twist everything around. So how do we know what we're looking at? Which one is the truth? What's real?

"What's real?" he demands. I shake my head. I don't have the answer.

"John." The force of the word doubles him over. His white-knuckled grip is on the edge of his headstone. I rush to help him, but he shakes me off.

"I'm fine," he roars, snatching away from me. "There's nothing wrong with me." His breathing's too fast. His gaze is too unfocused. My hand hovers uselessly behind his back, not quite touching him. He slams down to the ground, his knees making hard contact with the soft grass beneath him. His hands are pressed to his head.

"Oh, god." Rocking back and forth, he squeezes his eyes shut. I don't know when it happened, but I'm in the dirt now, too, crouching beside him and tugging his hands away.

"John." It's a painful sound. A cry for help. A plea for mercy.

With a sharp intake of breath, he falls forward on all fours. His breathing sounds painful and uneven. His hand flies to his stomach with a jerk.

"It hurts," he wheezes.

"What? What does?" If he just tells me what's wrong, I can fix it. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" My voice is surprisingly steady, but I can still detect a note of desperation. "What hurts?" I plead.

"Everything."

I pull him to his feet, and he leans heavily on me. His hand flies to my wrist, his fingers track my pulse. His other hand is pressed to his chest, and it's like he's keeping time with our corresponding heartbeats. I'm still terrified, but it seems to calm him. I bring my free hand to his face and stroke his cheek, guiding his face so that he makes eye contact with me.

"You're okay. You're okay. Oh, God, please. You're okay."

"I know, John," he gasps. "I'm with you."

His grip on my arm is tight enough to leave bruises. I can feel the tremors running through his body. He is heavy in my arms. Ragged breathing is struggling its way up his throat.

Without warning, he lurches away from me, clutching his heart. I keep my arms firm around him.

"John, I think—" he heaves a pained breath. "—I'm having—" he makes a dry, retching sound. "—a heart attack." He veers away from me as I call for an ambulance.

He's insensible now, gulping and gasping. There is no coherence in his speech, no clarity in his eyes. My name comes up every now and then, and that's the only time he has any semblance of himself. "John," he moans, whirling around. He lurches back towards me.

His grip is a vice on my arm. His eyes are horrible and bloodshot and locked onto mine.

"I'm dying, John. I'm dying."

My hands are clumsy as they smear the tears away from his face. Over and over again, I shush him.

"No, you're not, Sherlock. It's not a heart attack. It just feels like one. You just need to breathe. Breathe through the panic. You can stop this. You can control it. Breathe. Do this with me." I pull his hand up to my throat, trusting him not to choke me in his terror. His fingers extend for a moment, considering, then fall limply against my neck. His other hand is glued to the front of my jacket. I'm supporting the full weight of his body.

"Breathe, Sherlock. In and out. In and out. Breathe with me. In and out. Breathe."

For a moment, I have him. Together, we pull breath in, push it out. His eyes never leave mine. He won't even blink.

"John."

And then, he's gone. I lose him to violent shaking and fractured sobs. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold him through it. His hand slips down to my chest and presses against it. His other hand is still against his. His fingers curl tightly against the front of my shirt, and I try to hold on for the both of us.

* * *

**Real talk for a second: if you are suffering with anxiety, depression, or any other form of mental illness, please get help. I can say from experience that it's an absolutely horrible thing to go through alone. I tried to deal with my panic attacks by myself, and it culminated in a rather awful nervous breakdown. So please know that you don't have to be alone!**

**I think it's important to say that this point in the story marks the beginning of the healing process. I've had enough of poor Sherlock's suffering.**

**Chapter title inspiration: The National, "Sea of Love"**

**xxx**


	13. Chapter 13

**Leaps and Bounds (Backwards and Forwards).**

* * *

_"If I wasn't everything that you think I am—everything that I think I am—would you still want to help me?_

* * *

13. The Walls Are All Shattered; I'm Back at the Start

There's a wailing in the distance and a throbbing in my head. Liquid thoughts slip past me, trickle through my fingers. Everything is melting down around me, flowing through my grasp. I can't hold on. I can't hold on to anything. Except for John. I bunch the fabric of his shirt tighter in my hand. The thrum of his heart is pounding solidly beneath my touch. I want to reach through his ribs and pull it out, hold it in my hands, clutch it to my chest.

"…too fast," he's saying.

_Yes, John. Too fast. Everything is spinning much too fast._

"Sherlock, if you can hear me, I need you to slow down your breathing. Sherlock? Please. You were doing so well before."

Spots are erupting in front of my vision. _I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry._

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay. You're okay."

I hadn't realized I was speaking. Every nerve in my body is rebelling against me. There's a crackling in my mind; I can practically hear the synapses misfiring.

The wailing is getting closer. The siren's cry pierces straight through my body. I can hear John talking over my head, explaining something to the paramedics. I can't quite work out his words, but the hums and lifts to his voice are enough. They vibrate through my bones, his soothing tones washing over me.

I'm being lifted into the air. They're taking me away. Taking me away from John.

_No. _"No." I cough and sputter out the word, and it sounds feebler than it should. "Not…leaving..." My arms flail out, trying to find him. Finally, I feel him capture his hand in mine, and I hold on for dear life. "I'm—not—leaving. Not. Again."

"Alright. Alright. I'm coming with you. I've got you." He squeezes my hand. "See?"

"John. I won't leave." There's a death rattle all around me. It's my own breathing, bouncing around the small space of the ambulance.

"Sh. It's alright."

"Because I know, _I know_—what leaving—gets me."

"It's alright. Don't try to talk."

"Or rather…I—I know what it—doesn't."

His grip on my hand becomes inescapably tighter.

"Sherlock…" It's a whisper so soft, it sounds like a caress, the vowels curling tenderly. "They're going to sedate you, but no one's leaving. Okay?"

I shake my head frantically. This can't happen again. I can't go back to the blackness. I can't be locked back in my mind.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. I'll stay with you. You'll be fine. Do you trust me?"

"Only. You."

Then, darkness.

**…**

A child runs in front of me, his dark curls bouncing. A shaggy, red dog follows in his wake. The clicks of his paws mix with the loud echoes of the boy's footsteps. They fly up the marble steps, his hand gliding over the glossy bannister of the grand staircase. I try to keep up, but they slip away, out of sight.

When I finally reach the landing, I turn immediately left to head down the hallway. My feet move of their own volition. They know where they're going.

The large, heavy door at the end of the hallway stands open. I move toward it slowly, the familiarity of this scene prickling at the back of my neck. A boy of about fifteen walks by my side. He's a bit round around the edges, the pudgy flesh of his cheeks curling over his thick frown. He doesn't notice me, but we continue walking side-by-side down the hall, our footsteps muffled by the plush carpeting.

We pass through the ornately carved doorway. Affectionately, I take in the clutter and the chaos. Strewn with books and clothes, papers, and other odds and ends, the mess is the only thing that resembles a typical child's room. Everything else is an anomaly. There are no toys, no stuffed animals, no children's books. Instead, there are history books, anatomic models, science kits.

I can see the curly-haired boy across the room. He is on the balcony, the glass doors leading to it thrown open. He's standing on a chair next to a giant telescope. On his tiptoes, he stares into the eyepiece.

"Sherlock," the boy says from next to me.

Disapproval is evident in his tone. Despite this, the little boy looks up at him and beams.

"Come look, My!" he exclaims. "I'm tracking the stars. Come look!"

He leaps down expectantly, offering the telescope to his older brother. Mycroft crosses his arms and arches his brows, unimpressed. He opens his mouth to speak, but the boy cuts him off enthusiastically.

"Did you know that you can use the stars for directions? That's how pirates know where they are! That's how they find their treasure."

"Sherlock—" Mycroft tries again.

"—That's why I'm tracking them," the boy continues happily. "I'm getting good, My! I'm going to be the best pirate in the world someday!"

"Why would you ever want that?"

"Pirates are the greatest adventurers in the world! They are the most feared men on the seven seas! No one can beat them! Nothing can kill them!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. Of course that isn't true. Why else do you think that there are no pirates left? They're all dead."

Under the sardonic words, the boy deflates, his shoulders sagging.

"Is _this_ how you choose to waste your time?" Mycroft taunts. He sweeps an arm over to the telescope. It looks ugly and bulky there on the balcony.

And now, I'm the boy, glaring up at Mycroft. The unfairness of the old memory still resonates within me, even now.

"Perhaps this is why you are so very slow. You always have your head in the clouds."

"I'm not slow," I growl, balling my hands into fists.

"Of course you are, little brother; your head is full of stars."

He turns on his heel and heads for the door. "Mummy and Daddy would be so disappointed," he murmurs. I slam the door behind hind him. It bangs shut, the sound deafening in my head. I storm across the room, back over to the telescope. I kick the legs out from underneath it, sending it crashing to the ground. I throw myself down next to it and stare into the dark, yawning sky.

The stars wink at me, twinkling like they're laughing at me. I close my eyes, deleting each one, forgetting every last constellation and planet, and pretend like tears aren't streaking down my cheeks.

**…**

I open them again underneath a completely different sky. This one is blue and endless, not a cloud in sight. The sun is too pale, like the light is being passed through a strainer. Something is lifting me, lifting me up, and forcing me to my feet. I stumble uncertainly. My arms feel too long, and my legs feel too short. My head is so heavy. There's a hand on my neck, guiding me forward. My feet stutter, seeming to move slower than the rest of my body. There's a voice in my ear, grating and loud.

"Right," the voice is saying. "Stop mucking about. Got another one for you."

He shoves me forward, and I almost trip over the body, sprawled obscenely on the concrete. We're in a grey alleyway, full of refuse and rain. I whirl around. Lestrade is frowning at me. His mouth is drifting away, slipping down over his chin. None of his features will stay still. His eye is lazing down his cheek, and his ear is listing its way over his forehead. The waxy warp of his face melts inward, a grotesque caricature.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he asks from his neck, his mouth cutting a horrible gash there.

Bones clacking, I turn back to the body lying amongst the trash and the rats. My heart stops. _He's me._ The body is me. John is next to it, and he looks up at me, fury erupting behind his eyes.

"For god's sake," he shouts, "solve the murder!"

I point a quaking figure at the body.

"Save the life."

"NO!" he explodes, leaping to his feet. "I can't. He's dead. He's gone! Now solve it. _Solve it._ Solve the murder!"

"I can't," I counter. "Save him, John. Save the life."

"Solve the murder, save the life." Mycroft walks calmly between us. The tip of his umbrella lands just short of the dead man's head—my head.

"What?" I say. My voice sounds very far away.

"If you solve the murder," he enunciates slowly, "then you can save the life. Solve the murder, save the life," he says simply. It doesn't make sense. _It doesn't make sense._

I stare helplessly at my lifeless face.

"Solve it, Sherlock. Figure it out."

There's an angry buzzing in my ears. There are too many things missing. I look closer at the body. He's missing something, too.

"His heart," I rasp. "He's missing his heart."

The four of us lean over and peer into the black hole at the center of his chest.

"Who is he, anyway?" John asks.

"Me," I hiss. "Don't you see? It's me."

I fall forward, grab the front of his shirt.

"I solved it. I solved it, John. Now save him. Save _me_."

"You're still missing something, Little Brother."

I don't look at him, instead keeping my eyes on John. Sadly, he shakes his head. He crouches down by my inert body and points to my temple.

"It's the bullet that killed him," he says. "Someone shot him straight through the head."

"But the heart," I insist. "Someone took his heart."

No one is listening to me.

"Who killed you Sherlock?" John shouts.

"Figure it out," Mycroft scolds.

"What's taking so long?" Lestrade demands.

They converge on me, a seething, buzzing swarm of words and faces.

"Who killed you?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. _I don't know._" I clamp my hands around my head.

"Oh, but you do know, don't you, Sherlock?" Moriarty's voice floats around us, seemingly disembodied. I jerk around, silently begging that he isn't inside my head. John is looking around too, brow furrowed. _Run, John. Run as far as you can. Don't let him near you. If he gets to you, you will be lost. And all of this will have been for nothing._

I reach for him, and he does the same, the tips of our fingers barely brushing. And then, out of the blackness, out of the hole in my chest, he climbs out, crawling and dragging his way up until he's standing fully formed in front of us.

"You've known all along," he whispers.

"Mary," I gasp. "It was Mary. She killed me. She shot me."

"Good, Sherlock," he lilts. "Good." He reaches a hand out to stroke my cheek, and I jolt away. A sinister smile curls over his face.

"Now, who has your heart?"

**…**

I blink slowly awake. There's a cavity in my chest, an aching void. Something is missing. Its absence is a palpable thing, eating its way through me. Something is missing. I can't figure out what it is until I see his face. The second our eyes meet, warmth rushes through my core and out to the tips of my fingers. And yet, for a reason I can't place, there's a stress-fueled throbbing in my temples. I stare into his eyes, begging for something I don't know how to ask for. He heaves a conspiratorial sigh with the smallest chuckle on the end of it.

"Sherlock Holmes loses his mind."

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. A small, fond smile breaks across the worried lines of his face. There is no mockery, no judgment. Just easy acceptance and the smallest pinch of concern, for good measure. And just like that, something within me releases. He makes everything so easy.

"You can never do anything by halves, can you?"

"Of course not, John. Wouldn't want to disappoint you."

"I _have_ told you that you're a drama queen, right?"

"It might have come up once or twice."

We both laugh at that, so hard that I don't think we're going to stop. And for a minute, things feel normal. The walls of the hospital fade, and we're back at Baker Street, laughing inappropriately at things no decent person would ever find funny.

_This is why I need you, John. _

When we finally stop, he runs a hand over his face and brings it into a fist under his chin. Eyebrow cocked, he studies me, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"So, what's the verdict? How crazy am I?"

"Uh, jury's still out." A ripple of discomfort passes over his face. "They're going to keep you under observation for a few days at least."

"Whatever for?"

"You're considered to be at risk."

"On what grounds?"

"Well, you _did_ throw yourself off of a building a while back. Doesn't exactly inspire confidence." It's obvious that he's trying for humor, but the hitch in his voice makes it fall just short.

"Oh, for God's sake, that was ages ago! And it wasn't even real."

"Just a magic trick…" he says as though he's just figured something out.

He squints inquisitively at me, and I drop my gaze away. Silence pokes at us, jabs us in the sides, and makes us shift awkwardly. I mesh my fingers together, pull them apart, and push them through again. My eyes follow the path of my fingertips as I bring them in front of my nose. Anxiety is coming off of him in waves.

"If you ask me again, I'll tell you," I say softly.

I risk a glance out of the corner of my eye. He looks conflicted, almost like he's being strangled.

"Maybe another time."

He rubs the top of his legs and pushes to his feet. "I'm not even supposed to be here right now. They wanted to keep you isolated," he says, pacing. "Mycroft had to pull a few strings."

He's a churning mass of agitation. Remnants of pain reawaken and start creeping their way back to the center of my chest. I know I shouldn't push him; I know he's dangerously close to the edge. But I can feel the tilt, the inexorable pull towards this moment.

"John. Ask me again."

"I'm sure you had your reasons."

I bring a thoughtful hand to my chest and kneed my fingers over it.

"I think _reason_ had very little to do with it."

The minutes tick past us. His face softens. There's a kindness in his eyes that I don't entirely deserve.

"I'm tired," I sigh.

"Yeah," he says, coming back to sit next to me. His hand is there again, hovering inches away from me, a breath away from my cheek. Warmth emanates from the palm of his hand, wafting over my face. Something like contentment curls in my chest, but there's an edge of sadness to it.

His face is blurry. But I won't close my eyes. He gives me a small smile, his hand dropping away.

"It's okay, Sherlock. You can sleep. I won't leave."

As though they've been waiting for it, my eyes drop shut.

_Of course you understand, John. You see. John. John Watson. The linchpin. The tipping point to my sanity. The pivot around which my brain spun out of control._

**…**

The cracks are splitting apart. Pieces of the wall fall away, cascading down in sheets. Fractures skitter over the ceiling. Jagged lines. Gnarled fingers clawing a ragged opening to the sky. Mortar and brick rain down upon me, causing earthquake vibrations beneath my feet. The floor groans menacingly, threatening to break apart. Everything is coming down around me.

The cracks are splitting apart. Seams bursting from the wall. Blinding light pours through openings. It blazes, like a fire. Flames lick their way inside. The wood splits, the splinters fly out in a crescendo of staccato eruptions. Snapping like gun shots.

The cracks are splitting apart. I'm buried under the plaster and wood and brick. The weight presses down on me, compresses me into nothing. My bones start to give under the heavy anchors. There are no clean breaks, just a gridwork of corruption and breakage. I'm shattering into pieces.

The cracks are splitting apart.

**…**

Baker Street is in shambles. It's a ruin. A wreckage. I try to lift the pieces, fit them back together, but they just break apart further. And they're shredding my hands. Shredding them to pieces.

The walls are gone. Everything is gone. There's an aching in my head and a rift in my heart.

"Sherlock." John's hand is on my shoulder, pulling me away from the destruction. "It's okay," he whispers. "We can fix it. We can rebuild."

**…**

I wake up with his hand clasped around my wrist. His fingers are trained on the vein that bears the full thrust of my pulse. His arm is stretched over the bed, pinning down the sheets, but I don't mind. It's a nice weight. A reassuring weight. He holds his head in his other arm, his fingers curling over his hair. His grip is stiff around my wrist, unwilling to let go. For the first time in a long time, nothing hurts. All the pain is gone. It's not opaque or smothered; it's not being diluted by painkillers. It is utterly absent.

He starts awake, and his head jerks up to check on me. Worry fills his eyes upon realizing he'd fallen asleep. I meet his gaze calmly, some of the pain starting to pulse toward the center of my chest again. I try to smile, but it comes out more as a grimace. He makes no response other than to start to slide his hand away from mine. Instantly, the pain sharpens, focuses. Before I can regulate the movement, my hand flies out to twist up and capture his wrist. And he doesn't resist.

We stay there like that, clasping each other's forearms, our hands in a deadlock. Like he's pulling me up from the edge of a cliff. The pain ebbs. He drifts away first, and I align my breathing so that it's keeping time with his.

An entirely unprecedented feeling settles over me. It's something I don't entirely understand, something I don't even know if I want. It scares me. I feel warm. I feel safe. I feel _whole_.

It scares me.

**…**

The cracks are fading. Pale veins in the wood, crisscrossing and intersecting gently. Spiraling together into a dizzying pattern that renders individual lines indistinguishable. They coalesce and center beneath my feet. The floor ripples under my toes. The splintered foundation is brittle beneath me. I should be worried, but I'm not. I just feel achingly hollow. I'm at a loss and don't know why. An expectant current runs beneath my skin. I'm waiting for something.

John is here now. He is with me now. The emptiness is gone. Smiling, he reaches for me, the cracks healing beneath his feet with every step he takes in my direction. The floor is becoming whole again. The wood rolls gently. I'm thrown off balance by it as I bob up and down over the waves. My hand stretches out to his. His touch is like an anchor for me.

Our hands meet and tangle together. Our fingers unravel into strange, flesh-colored threads. They reweave so that his fibers are twined with mine. Where does he end? Where do I begin? _John. Where are you_? "I'm here." He answers my thoughts with gentle words that reverberate through my ribs. His other hand comes to my heart. _"I'm here."_ I am on solid ground again.

The cracks are gone.

**…**

It scares me.

* * *

**Chapter title inspiration: Ian Axel, "Fall on Me"**

**I know I must sound like I'm stuck on some infinitely recurring loop at this point, but I simply must say this again: Thank you for reading and commenting and being just great people in general! xxx**

**PS Don't think that the way will be easy for these two...all I'm gonna say is...John is really good at denial, and Sherlock excels at regression. Angst, I tell you. Angst!**


	14. Chapter 14

**What Mycroft knows.**

* * *

_"I worry about him. Constantly."_

* * *

14. My Head's to Blame for All My Heart's Mistakes

The door pushes open quietly. Neither one of them notices me, but then, only one of them is awake. Sherlock is sleeping deeply, and he looks younger than he has in years. John is sitting on the edge of his bed with his hand cupped around Sherlock's cheek. He's leaning over my brother's form. Their faces are so close together that his lips are almost against his forehead. I can see the longing in his hold, and I can read the protectiveness in his body language. He's stiff, like the posture's not completely natural to him. The intimacy scares him, but something stronger than the fear draws his arms around my brother.

I've never liked seeing other people around Sherlock. It always made me uneasy. I didn't trust anyone with him. I feel none of this trepidation with John. Seeing the two of them together brings me a peace that I'm not sure I'm comfortable with. After living so long with the worry, its absence is disconcerting. The comfort is not without an edge of foreboding, however. Because this picture of the two of them is far from absolute, and John's presence by his side is far from guaranteed.

Almost as though he's bodily expressing my concerns, Sherlock jolts up, his arms reaching forward for John. The sudden movement startles John backwards, but he brings reassuring arms around Sherlock, just the same. Spasms continue to rock through my brother's body, and I take a few unrestrained steps toward him. Though to anyone else it would just register as mild concern, what I'm feeling is barely repressed panic.

John only tightens his arms around Sherlock's body, holding him securely to his chest. He's whispering his name quietly, over and over. Something deep within Sherlock's consciousness seems to recognize his voice, and I watch as the tremors incrementally subside.

Sherlock partially wakes, bringing half-lidded eyes to gaze at John.

"What's—What's the matter, John?"

John brushes a hand through Sherlock's curls, his mouth turning down. "You're scaring me, Sherlock," he says gently. There's no blame in his voice, but there is the smallest hint of begging.

"Well, John. _You_ scare _me_." Sherlock smiles benignly at him before allowing his head into the crook of John's neck.

John eases him back into the mattress, hurt evident in the slope of his shoulders. He doesn't understand—doesn't understand the immensity of what Sherlock has just declared. I would explain, but it isn't my job. And something like this is fragile. It takes time.

I draw up to John's side, causing him to jump in surprise. Eyes closed, he recovers himself.

"Mycroft." He barely inclines his chin in my direction. He's angry at me. He blames me for this. It makes sense; he's the type of man who resents helplessness and showing weakness, substituting anger for them instead.

"Hello, John. How is my brother faring?"

"He seemed to be doing better earlier. He was still having nightmares, but he would wake up from them lucid. He's been like this for a couple of hours now, though."

"Has he stayed awake for any length of time?"

"Not really. But he'll have to get up eventually. They still need to evaluate him."

"I'm sure he'll _love_ that." John gives a small chuckle, and it's as close to camaraderie as we're likely to get. I tilt my head to the side. "Perhaps you could wake him for me? I do believe that my brother and I have some things to discuss."

Begrudgingly obedient, John carefully shakes Sherlock awake, keeping his hands tightly wrapped around his shoulders.

It takes a few minutes, but Sherlock's eyes finally open completely, and his gaze slowly clears. Through the entire process of waking, he keeps his eyes firmly riveted on John's face. If Sherlock's sanity is a deeply buried well somewhere in the landscape of his mind, then John is the divining rod. This is what makes him so necessary and so very dangerous.

Sherlock's stare drifts down, and they both at the same time seem to realize the proximity of their bodies on the hospital bed. Almost guiltily, John leaps up, glancing uncertainly at me out of the side of his eyes. Following his gaze, Sherlock's eyes light on me and darken instantly.

"Hello, Brother Mine. I was hoping to have a word with you."

"I don't suppose I get a say in it?"

"Well, I never do," John interjects, glaring at me.

"Won't take long," I continue, ignoring them both. "John can wait in the hall."

They stare at me and then simultaneously turn to look at each other. At Sherlock's nod, John stalks out of the room, slamming the door pointedly behind him. I smile pleasantly at Sherlock, and he glares morosely in return.

"What do _you_ want?"

"Gratitude, Little Brother, would not be remiss."

"Given to you, I'm sure it would be ill-bestowed."

"My, my, aren't we prickly? Though, I suppose going mad will do that to a person."

"Validating as it must be for _you_, your god complex is awfully tiresome for everyone else. So stop preening and just tell me what exactly it is that you want from me."

"I'm here to help you, Sherlock."

"Help me?" he snorts. "If you really wanted to help me, you'd use all of your _connections_ to get me out of here."

"Oh, I don't know. John wants you here, and I know you don't want to disappoint him. He thinks this is the best place for you right now, and for once, I agree with him. Besides, I don't think it would kill you to get some rest.

"So, no, Sherlock. I'm not going to get you _out_, but I did do the next best thing. I got him _in_. You can't imagine how strict these hospitals are. So tedious. It took a surprising amount of clout to get them to allow you visitors. In the end, they did make a special exception—_family_ only."

He freezes at the word and tries to keep his face blank, but I can see everything he's trying to hide. There's guarded curiosity, wondering how much I know. There's repressed fear, worrying about what the significance of his exposed feelings mean to me, and worse, what they mean to him. And there's the smallest glimmer of vulnerability. Because that one word is a door that opens up to countless possibilities that he doesn't even want to let himself consider.

Taking advantage of the pause,—he so rarely runs out of words—I give him a small, knowing smile.

"As you know, my position in the government allows me certain privileges. For example, if there is ever a national emergency, I have a list of people who are to be protected at any and all costs. On that list are four names: Mummy, Father, you," I pause. "And John Watson."

He visibly starts at that, an unspoken question in his eyes.

I nod. "Family. I protect family."

"Not always, Mycroft."

I should have seen that one coming. I set myself up for it. We glare at one another and prepare to square off again.

"What about Mary? Is she protected by proxy?"

"This might surprise you, but I don't feel particularly well-disposed towards Mrs. Watson at present time."

"Mycroft—"

"Enjoyable as it would be to outwit you, I'm afraid that I don't much feel like debating this topic."

He closes his mouth into a resigned line. He knew it would be my answer all along, but he wanted to hear me say it. Because a small part of him—one that he doesn't want to feel but is growing larger every day—feels the same way.

"Would you like to know when Dr. Watson's name joined that illustrious list?"

He's pouting now and refusing to answer me. I sigh. Petulance is so unbecoming of him.

"It was about three years ago," I say, unprompted. "You had just died, if you recall. Almost took John with you, albeit in a different way than he would have preferred."

"Stop it."

"I had never seen a man so utterly destroyed."

"John was not _destroyed_. I saw him after. I knew he would soldier through."

"I wasn't talking about _him_. I saw you, little brother, hours after the fall. Saw what it did to you to leave him behind. You needed him then, and I knew that you would need him unimaginably more when you returned."

"So, on the list he went."

"Indeed."

"You _do_ realize that you're sending signals that are rather mixed."

"How so?"

"You've told me on numerous occasions to hold him at an arm's length, and yet, this whole time, you've been carving out a branch for him on the family tree."

"I thought that maybe there was a chance I could change your mind. Love doesn't make you stronger; it just exposes your vulnerabilities. I was trying to protect you from that. But you are stubborn. You always have been."

His eyes are hard, and it's not hard to see the sheen of denial there. _There's that stubbornness again._ So, he's still repressing his feelings, then, lying about them, even to himself. That's fine. We both know that he'll have to grapple with them eventually. Sooner or later, everything buried comes to the surface. Current events are evidence of that.

"So stubborn," I repeat. "But then, so am I."

His head snaps up in surprise. I stare obstinately back, not willing to yield more ground than I already have. I exhale unwillingly.

"I think, I have to start to accept that not everything you reach for is poisonous. You're not a child anymore. I can't keep everything on the top shelf and out of your grasp."

He rolls his eyes at the metaphor. If I'm being honest, I know I'll never stop treating him like a child, and it's partly because he'll never stop acting like one. A nagging part of me, one that only he can draw out, wants to snap him out of his annoyed indifference. I clear my throat.

"This is a rare thing,—because I am rarely wrong—but I will confess to being happily mistaken about John Watson."

He wheezes in surprise.

"My god, next thing you know, we'll be spilling our deepest, darkest secrets to one another."

"I already know your deepest, darkest secrets, Sherlock."

_Even the ones that you want to pretend don't exist_.

John loudly opens the door to Sherlock's room, shattering the moment. Apparently, our discussion has taken too long for his taste, and apparently, he is less trusting of me than I initially suspected. Arms crossed, he strolls forward.

"Want to wrap this up?"

Without subtlety, he positions himself between me and Sherlock's bed. His hands flex anxiously in and out of fists. He's afraid I'm going to make him worse.

_Dr. Watson, you and I are not so different after all. I fear the same thing from you._

With a glance down at Sherlock, he turns his back to me.

"I ran into a nurse while I was in the hall. Since you're up, they're going to send in the attending psychiatrist to evaluate you."

"Can't you do it?"

"Sherlock," John steps closer to him, eclipsing me. "Don't be difficult. You know I can't."

"No. It's a ridiculous waste of time. The evaluation is standard, and the responses are easily manipulated."

"So tell them what they need to hear! It's not a long trip from the psych ward to a mental hospital, you know."

"It's unnecessary. I don't want these _people_ to come in here and—"

"—I know, I know. They don't understand you. But no matter how much they poke and prod you, you are still going to be smarter than they are."

Instantly, Sherlock's agitation abates. He's looking at John with unadulterated trust. This is unexpected. Whatever is between them goes deeper than I initially thought. I've never seen anyone take my brother apart so efficiently. _Yes, John Watson, you are very, very good for him. But you can also be very, very bad._

John reaches forward, but his inhibitions are back in place, and he can't quite bring himself to touch him. He gives a small, tentative smile.

"So, will you cooperate? Can you do this for me?"

"Yes," Sherlock nods. "For you."

"Good," John says, trailing back toward the door.

"Only you," Sherlock whispers, so quietly that I almost miss it.

"Well," I say, rocking my weight back and forth, "I'll leave you to it."

I pat the metal frame of the bed—the closest we'll ever get to physical affection—and follow John toward the door.

"Oh, Sherlock," I turn to face him on my way out, "once you're done with your little mental vacation, we've got work to do."

"Yes. Eastern Europe is doing some _very _interesting things, isn't it?"

"And here I thought you were losing your touch."

Without further comment, I leave. John makes to follow, but I grab his arm lightly. "Perhaps, you should stay with him until the doctor arrives."

He blinks hard and nods at me, gratitude in his eyes.

"Yeah...Yeah."

* * *

I wait for him in the hall, one foot crossed over the other, umbrella propped by my side. I've always hated hospitals. I hate Sherlock in hospitals even more. And I hate people who put him here. It's not hard to imagine the conflicts that will arise from that in the future.

The passing nurses give me a wide berth, some of them with disapproval in their eyes, others, with awe bordering on fear. Rule-breaking is obviously one of those things that is frowned upon here.

A young woman—determined, enthusiastic, confident—walks up to me. She has intelligent eyes and a capable posture. A tight, professional smile breaks through the composed lines of her face.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Dr. Reynolds," she says, extending her hand. "I'll be evaluating your brother."

"Hm." More than likely, it will be the other way around. I take her hand and shake it.

"I take it his partner is in the room with him? The nurses say he's quite devoted. Won't leave his side."

"Ah, yes. He is." I don't bother to contradict her assumption. It's more correct than not, anyway.

"Good. I'll go make my introductions. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. And don't worry; your brother is in good hands."

"Yes, he is." _Though, I'm not talking about yours._

With a final nod, she steps away from me and lets herself into Sherlock's room. John joins me in the hall a few minutes later. Our eyes meet in mutual understanding.

"I just met his doctor," he says. "She's, uh, quite keen."

"Indeed."

"He's going to rip her to shreds."

"Indeed."

John gives a small huff of laughter, but he sobers quickly. I swing my umbrella thoughtfully.

"Well, the good news is, we've managed to keep this out of the papers."

"Good. Nice to know you have your priorities in order."

"Don't condescend to me, John. It's so petty."

"Yeah, well, so's showing up to lord over your brother when he's in the state he's in."

"I came to check on him, John. Despite what you think, I do care about what happens to him."

"Oh, do you? Because you haven't exactly been _hands on_ with him over the last month. My god, I was in way over my head with this! And where were you?"

"If you'll remember, you chose to exclude me, eschewing my help and instead, choosing to deal with him on your own. I understand your desire to blame someone, John. However, I'm not entirely responsible for this. But perhaps you are right to be angry with me."

"What did you do this time?"

"I did what I thought was best for him. Your codependency worried me—still does, in fact. So I tried to convince him that his association with you was a weakness. It would seem that I only partially succeeded."

_Whether he likes it or not, I am the voice in the back of his head, whispering doubts. But something stronger than that kept bringing him back to you._

John puts his hands on his hips and glares at me.

"Mycroft, you are brilliant—a genius, even. But you don't know everything. In fact, in light of recent events, I'd even venture to say that you don't know very much at all. And it's not your fault. You did what you thought was best. I know it's because you care about Sherlock and don't want to see him hurt. But that's just it. That seems to be the goal of everyone around him. There are a lot of people who care about Sherlock. They just don't know how to show it because he doesn't know how to receive it. No one really knows how to care for Sherlock properly."

"I wouldn't say that."

His face reddens in anger, and I know that he's misinterpreted what I'd meant.

"Your way is not always the best way, Mycroft. I'm not saying you don't love your brother. But maybe it's just not translating correctly."

"Now which of us 'doesn't know very much at all,' Dr. Watson?"

"Sorry?"

"John, out of the two people standing in this hallway, one of us _knows exactly what he's doing_. You are exactly right. Out of all of us that care about Sherlock, none of us are particularly adept at it. I am excepting one person from that count."

I give him a very pointed look that he chooses not to respond to. Repression smothers his features. I quirk my mouth and study the handle of my umbrella.

"Sherlock has always been…unique. He didn't start speaking until he was three. But more troubling than that, when anyone spoke to him, he would never even indicate that he understood what was being said to him nor did he respond to them in any way. Our parents tried everything. They took him to speech therapists, child psychologists, and even otolaryngologists, just to make sure he didn't have hearing problems. But Sherlock puzzled them all."

John's clearly wondering what the point to this story is, but he's far too fascinated to interrupt.

"Only I was able to get through to him. I spent hours upon hours every day with him, teaching him how to _see_ the world. We started simply. I would bring him random objects and tell him everything that I knew about them based on what I observed. Soon, Sherlock took up the practice with gusto, spewing information, analyzing the world around him. The way I saw it, Sherlock had been born into a world to which he didn't know how to relate, and I had given him a way to view it."

"If the two of you had such an idyllic brotherly relationship, why the resentment between you now?"

"He was soft, John. We made a game out of dismantling appearances, but we always drew short of disrupting the veneer of our own lives. For all of his cleverness, he lacked introspection, and I couldn't help but wonder if it was a coping mechanism. It didn't take a genius to see Sherlock was different, but maybe it was easier for Sherlock to pretend that he wasn't.

"It became very difficult for him to let people in. And people very rarely knew what to do with him. He is so much more sensitive than he lets on. Growing up, he had to learn how to only rely on himself. He couldn't expect people to coddle him. People resent superiority in others. He was never going to find acceptance, so he needed to learn self-reliance, instead."

"So, you trained him to rebuff affection and forgo meaningful interpersonal relationships?"

"I was protecting him."

"But that doesn't make sense. I've met your parents. They're lovely, and they clearly adore the two of you."

"Your point?"

"What happened to the two of you that made you so afraid of love?"

_Very good, John. Now you're asking the right questions._

"I think we're getting a bit off-topic. I was just getting to the point of my story."

"And what would that be?"

"There was a time when I was the greatest influence on Sherlock's life. But I've been losing my grip for years now." I survey him carefully. "A Holmes knows when he's beaten, but he very rarely admits it." I twirl my umbrella thoughtfully and turn away from him to walk down the hall. "I cede to you, John," I say, too quietly for him to hear.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. I do believe I couldn't leave my brother in any more _capable _hands."

* * *

**Good God, this thing was exhausting on the dialogue front! The Holmes brothers sure do love their verbal sparring.**

**I've had this headcanon for a while now that Mycroft is the reason that Sherlock started with his deductions...I just love their odd little relationship.**

**xxx**


End file.
